


Fear and Loathing in Romania

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-09
Updated: 2005-12-20
Packaged: 2019-01-19 20:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12417195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Something unusual, something strange / Comes from nothing at all / But I'm not a miracle / And you're not a saint / Just another soldier / On the road to nowhere...Tonks and Charlie. And the mess they spread across Europe.





	1. Chapter One: Two Chemical Substances

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

**.**

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is not, or ever will be, mine. Do not allow yourself to think otherwise…The title is also not my own invention. It's just a blatant rip-off of the film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. 

**Rating:** R (language, violence, sex)

**Summary:** Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way. 

**Author's Note:** Here it is: My grand attempt at a Tonks/Charlie fic. I'm attempting to make them human, more than just the two-dimensional personas everyone has come to associate them with. So please, by all means, let me know what you think of it. 

(Started July 2004, and almost a year and a half later, I still hate this chapter. Oh well. It's an introduction. And I _do_ plan to finish this. Someday...)

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

_Chapter One: Two Chemical Substances_

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." — Carl Jung

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

Her nails are chipped. But she can always make them grow. 

The house is settling and creaking all around her, as she sits there, alone, in a faded armchair, idly pulling at its stuffing. She gazes around at her surroundings, the gloominess permeating her mood. Decaying curtains and rusting metal. Rotting wood and furniture in utter disrepair. Home to a creature that once plotted the overthrow of his late master; once taking orders from a portrait that continues to scream through the day, the night, of traitors and betrayal, of family and of disappointment. She died years ago, but her resentment still lingers on. Heads of fallen servants adorn the cavernous halls, staring at their fellow fallen comrades. It's a house without a soul. 

And she hates it. Tonks hates this place more than anything. 

Headquarters, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. It's own unique circle of hell. If there really is a hell, she ponders, then quickly moves on in her head, side-stepping the kind of theological debate she once shared with her father. Before. Everything went to shreds. 

There's supposed to be a meeting tonight. The members of the Order, some of the most powerful wizards and witches of their time. Convening in the belly of a monster. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place: Former Home to the Dark Wizards. 

She finds it ridiculously ironic that they're using this house, the one-time home of her cousin, the home of the Blacks, as their meeting place. She laughs to think of them, the long-dead, pure-blood Blacks, rolling in their graves six feet under. 

"Don't be so morbid," she chides herself, out-loud. When you're constantly surrounded by death it's hard not to think of it. But the few remaining doxies don't answer and either does the boggart that she knows is hiding in the draw. She wonders how they managed to miss that one when they were cleaning. She'll deal with it later. 

She can hear the clang of pots and pans, the clink of ancient china and cutlery. She knows Molly is in there. But doubts that she's invited. Merlin love the Weasley matriarch, and she knows he must, but she can't ever seem to do anything right around that woman. It wasn't her fault that she had tripped and dropped that set of dishes. Or the cauldron full of stew. Or the pitcher of butterbeer. The flask of firewhiskey she'd spilled in Moody's lap. The fresh laundry she dropped that tumbled down the dusty stairs. That entire set of silverware. 

Maybe Molly had a point. 

Insecurities weren't her specialty, but in this house they seemed to breed. 

She had botched a recent mission for the Order. She accidentally let her cloak catch fire and kind of set off a chain of events that should have never been put into motion. She knew there'd be hell to pay for this one. They knew that all that "cloak and dagger" stuff made her nervous and when she got nervous she got clumsier than usual. But it was you who had insisted on going in the first place. 

"Oh, shut up." 

"You know, they say that talking to yourself is really the first sign of insanity." She looked up and was met with the customary Weasley red hair and freckles. Only this Weasley had the hair in a ponytail, an earring and only what she could call the coolest boots in the world. She was instantly jealous. 

"Well, Bill, at least I'll have a name for what it is that's exactly wrong with me." She smiled. She liked Bill. Not liked Bill, but liked him. He was like all the other Weasley's: good-natured, friendly and nice to talk to. She knew that he had been here, but hadn't seen much of him. She was too busy going out fucking up missions that should have been easy. You really need to get over that. She kept her mouth shut this time. Arguing with the voices in her head probably wasn't the best way to go. 

"Is dinner almost ready?" She hadn't realized how hungry she was until she brought up the subject of food in her desperate attempt to change the subject. In her head. Naturally it went to food. 

"Yeah. Should be ready in a few minutes. I think we're having some kind of meat pie." 

"Fantastic. Your mum is such a good cook, Bill. Honestly, if I lived with you people I'd be just positively huge. She's ten times better than my mum is…used to be…" She trailed off. It was still too fresh. Her mother. Dying. Bill must have caught her slip-up because he gave her apologetic smile. She hated that. More than anything. The pity she received over losing her mother. She's not lost. She's just gone. Gone and never coming back. But she smiled in return, convincing him that she was fine, despite the emotions churning beneath. 

**.**

Sighing, he pulled himself out of bed, pulling on the sweater his mother had knit for him ages ago. An ancient Christmas present. Impressive that it still fits. It was old, and looked it too. But it was easily the most comfortable thing he owned. 

It was a foggy morning. Strangely cool, with everything covered in that fine, grey mist. Coating the grass and the hills and the entire camp. It was almost eerie. But that might have been due to the fact it was only five in the morning and he was the only one up. Or so he liked to think. 

He raised his hands above his head and lazily cracked his neck. He was sore. And beyond tired. Working with dragons was his dream, but some days it felt like it was too much. He missed the comforts of home. He missed his own bed, his own room. A bathroom with water pressure. His mother's food, his brothers' nagging. But that was how it used to be. They were all now basically living out of the dump that was the Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, or so the letters said. 

He left his tent and wandered down to the Mess Hall, nearly wrenching his ankle in a hole. He really needed to wake up. He really needed some coffee. 

He pushed open the flap that served as a door and stepped inside, immediately receiving a slap on the back. "Charlie! Somebody's up early, eh?" 

Charlie chuckled and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Yeah. Somehow got myself out of bed. Not quite sure how." He was the camp's notorious early-riser. And Will was the one who loved to tease him the most about it, he being on the night-shift and loving nothing more than sleeping through the morning. "Have you checked up on the Norwegian today?" 

"Yeah. She's not sneezing those bloody fireballs anymore." Will shook his head, smiling slightly. "That was one fine fucking mess. But in the end, it turned out fine. Francis's arm is healing quite nicely, they say." 

"Good to hear." 

"Well, mate, I'm off. Don't singe yourself too bad today." Charlie smiled, waved, and watched him leave. Spinning around he found himself face to face with a boy, no more than twelve standing before him. Must be one the others' kid. Don't recognize him though. Maybe he's one of the Healers'. Or a local. 

"Laurence wants to see you." And with that the kid turned and left. Charlie scratched his head and left, knowing that seeing the boss first thing in the morning is never good, and cursing himself for not grabbing a cup of coffee first. 

**.**

Tonks sat at the table, drumming her fingers on the table, lost in the beat of the Weird Sisters. She realized that Snape was giving her what she could only call "the death glare", holding his temples as though another couple beats might just be enough to make his head explode. Adding one more for good measure, she ceased. 

Kingsley Shacklebolt was next to her, discussing some sort of dull Ministry business with Arthur Weasley. Mundungus Fletcher was staring into the bottom of his mug, looking utterly dazed with Hestia Jones looking curiously on at him. Moody was polishing his eye, making Tonks shudder slightly, and Emmeline Vance as well. Bill was arguing with Molly; she persisting on cutting his hair, and he simply not allowing it. McGonagall was speaking in low tones with Dumbledore while Remus Lupin sat off to the side. Looking sad, lost, aloof. She knew how he felt. 

Glancing around the room, Tonks realized she didn't recognize about a good half of the people there. She hadn't realized that the Order had grown so much in size. She felt a flutter of hope deep within her. 

Dumbledore stood, calling the meeting to order. His voice was softer than usual. He looks old. Old and tired. She felt a wave of pity for the man. 

He was seated, and the meeting went its usual route. Ministry members discussed rumors they had overhead, spies filled them in on newly acquired information. Then they came to the part she had been dreading: reviewing past missions. 

Her mission had been simple. To follow suspected Death Eater Johannes Windsor and report on his activities. Somewhere between Diagon Alley and his place in the swanky part of London, where you had no business being, she got a burst of adrenaline and decided to try and sneak in after him. Not only did she manage to trash half his flat, but blew her cover, and suspected the Order's as well. She wasn't looking forward to the berating she was about to receive. 

She hadn't realized that she had been zoning out until Kingsely discreetly kicked her under the table. Her head shot up and she knew she was blushing. She could feel it. Flaming red all over. Oh, Merlin, I just want to crawl under the table and pretend nothing ever happened. 

Dumbledore just smiled, congenial as always. That aged-to-perfection, all-knowing smile of his. "Nymphadora, we were just wanting to know what happened with Johannes Windsor." 

She swallowed. Audibly so. "Well…" She inhaled. Courage. Courage. "I found him at Diagon Alley, over by Flourish and Blotts, talking to a man I didn't recognize. Turned out just to be some author of a book he was a fan of, or the like, and then he went to the Leaky Cauldron and stayed far too long, drinking firewhiskey like it's going out of style." 

She's getting annoyed frowns and empty smiles. She's never felt so inadequate. "He met a girl there and he was going on and on about how successful his family is and blah blah blah, and was just positively obsessed over the fact that he was a pure-blood and how old and rich and pure his family was. Complely annoying git. Anyway, he gave this girl his address and told her to stop over some time. Well, I copied the address and after he apparated home, I decided to apparate on over too." She sees their expressions. Their shared look of fear as to where this story could possibly lead. Moody, especially. "And, well, I must have misjudged or something…"She can practically hear them all moaning. "And, well, I managed to catch his entire parlour on fire." She spits out the last part in a hurry to finish, terrified as to what comes next.

Moody's gaping at her. "What the bloody hell were you thinking going there in the first place? Rule Number One, Tonks! Rule Number One! Do not, under any circumstances put yourself in a situation you don't know how to get out of! There could have been a whole congregation of Death Eaters just waiting there. And then what? - -" 

Dumbledore raises his hand, silencing the sputtering Auror. "That's enough, Moody. Please, continue, Nymphadora." 

"Well, he, uh, smelled the smoke, and caught me in there. Had a bit of a duel. Managed to get him in a Full Body Bind. And then I…left." She squirms nervously in her seat. 

"Did you at least check him for the Dark Mark?" Moody sounded aggravated. She cringes. 

"No…" She didn't know how she had managed to squeak that single syllable out. The room filled with mutterings and sighs, grumbles and even harsher glares. She felt like she was shrinking, falling into the floor beneath them. And at the same time, she felt angry, bitter and resentful. She had made it out of there alive. That had been her primary goal. Yes, she had screwed up, but they could at least be happy that she was still here. She felt eight years old all over again. Being lectured by her father for not heeding his advice as her mother bandaged her skinned knees. Her mother… 

"Alright, alright." Dumbledore was attempting to take charge of the scene. "A simple misstep. One failed mission doesn't mean that we as a group have failed." The room silences, still none the happier. "Thank you, Nymphadora, for your valiant effort." He nods in her direction, and she nods in return. Feeling guiltier by the second. Dumber with every breath. 

The meeting continues, but she's not listening. Maybe this is your problem: not paying attention. She runs her hand through her now-pink hair, feeling a class fool. She deserves the dunce cap. She'll go sit in the corner. Like the troubled little kid she apparently is. But you're not. You are an Auror, a bloody Auror. You deserve to be here just as much as any of the rest of them does. You screwed up. They'll get over it. She feels slightly better. Encouraged by her own pep talk. 

It was late, or getting there at least. She could feel it. She was getting sleepy, sitting there in the dark room, belly full of butterbeer, listening to them all continue to drone on. 

But one name perked her attention immediately. 

"When are we going to bring in Charlie?" Molly looked anxious. She wanted her children as close to home as she could keep them. 

Oh, Merlin. Charlie Weasley. Here we go again…

"He's still in Romania?" Kingsley asked. Molly nodded. "I'd say we could owl him and have him come on over here, but there's no way to do that without disclosing the address, and we can't risk that." There was a rumble of agreement, mutters of "yeah, too risky," and nodding heads.

She was confused. She must have missed something. "Um, why do we need Charlie Weasley?"

"Confidential," Moody barked out. Apparently still displeased over both her earlier blunder and her current interruption. "Anyway, how are we going to get the boy here?" 

"We could send someone ever to fetch him." McGonagall's suggestion seemed to go over well with the crowd. 

"Excellent idea," Dumbledore concurred. "But, now, who do we send?" The room fell silent once more. Another hurdle to leap. Then just as suddenly, everyone began talking at once. 

"I'd go but I'm needed over at the Ministry…"

"…look too odd if I was gone…"

"…they've got the school to worry about…" 

"…don't have the time…" 

Somehow, through a convoluted game of process of elimination, Tonks found all eyes on her again. "Oh, no. I mean, you can't send me?" 

"Why not?" Snape drawled. "Now seems like the perfect time to redeem yourself after this last little mishap." 

She glared across the table. 

"But, really, all joking aside, this does seem the best course to take. I mean, she is the most expendable right now…" Way to sugar-coat it there, Moody. 

It was as though she wasn't there. They were all discussing her while she sat there in their midst. She might as well not have even better there. Probably would have been better off that way, come to think of it. 

But in the end, it was decided. Tonks would go fetch Charlie in five days' time. She'd leave Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. And find herself in Romania. An owl was sent to him, telling him of their plans. Vaguely, of course, lest it be intercepted. And she would go, go and fetch the man she hadn't seen since he was a boy. The man she hadn't seen since Hogwarts. The man she hadn't seen since she had gone and broken his heart. 

This should be interesting. 

**.**

Charlie awakened to yet another morning four days later. Just as tired as always. Trudging as usual through the mud, stopping at the Healers' to check on Laurence. A Chinese Fireball had gotten the better of him that day and all the bones in his right leg had to be reassembled. It hadn't been a good day. 

Finally making it to the Mess Hall, he plopped down next to Will who was about to fall asleep in his coffee. "Rough night?" 

Will just chuckled. "I'd say so. Damn Norwegian and its sneezes." Charlie laughed as well. 

Just then, an owl flew in through the open flap, nose-diving into Charlie's breakfast. He cursed as Will cracked up. Pulling the owl and the letter out of his soupy cereal, he shook the two off. He recognized the owl immediately as Ron's. Jumpy little bugger. What was its name? Cow? Dog? Pig? That was it…Pig. Will was still laughing as Charlie began opening the letter. Just as Charlie began smoothing the parchment out, he could hear yelling and screaming. 

A man popped his head into the tent. "The Hungarian has breached the fences!"

"Damn it…not again…" Charlie muttered as he leapt up from the table, Will following closely behind. And sure enough, he could see the flames igniting a few lone tents. Shoving his letter in his pocket, he raced off, ready for damage control. 

After quite a fight and a few burns later, Charlie found himself back in his bunk, shoving his boots off and crawling under the blankets. The letter he received: crumpled and unread on the floor.  
 **  
.**

**.**

**.**


	2. Chapter Two: Changing Lanes

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not, or ever will be, mine. Do not allow yourself to think otherwise…

Rating: R (language, violence, sex)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Two: Changing Lanes**

"Yeah, the night's not over  
You're not trying hard enough,  
Our lives are changing lanes  
You ran me off the road,

The wait is over  
I'm now taking over,  
You're no longer laughing  
I'm not drowning fast enough…"

_\- "Reptilia" — The Strokes_

.

.

.

So. Today was the day. Off to the dragon camps in Romania. 

"What the deuce have I gotten myself into?" She's asking the empty bedroom for answers. Answers she knows she'll never receive. If she's lucky, she might catch an echo. And repetition doesn't lead to problem-solving. If it leads to anything, then that has to be insanity. 

She's sitting on her bed. Robes covering her t-shirt and old jeans. She can see the tops of faded sneakers sticking out from underneath. She's debating. Deep in thought. About her appearance. 

She can't even remember the last time she cared about how she looked. She's assuming it was back at Hogwarts. Because, then, who didn't care about how good or bad they looked? 

She feels like she's in fourth year all over again. Fourteen and awkward and not sure who she's supposed to be. 

_You are an Auror. An Auror. You have fought Death Eaters. You have risked your bloody neck. You work for the bloody Ministry. Grow the fuck up. You are a professional. A professional._

She sighs. Hating the fact that going to get Charlie Weasley is a major conflict of interest that no one seems to be aware of. And completely unraveling her in the process. She doesn't get unraveled. She can't remember the last time she was unraveled. Fell apart. Wanted to crawl back in bed and hide and pretend that the past had never happened and was really just a giant nightmare. 

Apparently today was all about resurrecting the past. Emotions and otherwise. 

She's getting annoyed with herself. Annoyed that she's spent the last fifteen minutes debating on a hairstyle. She has gone from looking completely unrecognizable to her former Hogwarts self and everywhere in between. This is ridiculous. Bloody ridiculous. 

She stands, smoothing out her rumpled robes, wrinkling her nose at the appearance in the mirror. She makes a compromise. Her face with her eyes. But short black hair with pink stripes. No. Too typical. Always pink. She scrunches up her face. Brown. With blonde. She looks too ordinary for her tastes. Too much like herself. In the end she decides on a brown with odd maroon-ish streaks. It suits. It works. Sort of.

She sighs again. And kicks off the sneakers. Pulling on an even older pair of boots instead. She smiles. That wry, sardonic smile of hers where only half her mouth moves while the other stays in place. "Perfect," she murmurs, mussing her hair slightly. "Perfect." 

She leaves the room. But only after tripping over her discarded shoes. 

.

The camp is still a mess. Reeking of charred wood and dragon shit. Flattened tents decorate the field, and there are far fewer trees than there were mere days ago. Now they're just smoldering stumps left in the angry animal's wake. 

But he's out of bed, tired as always. Dreading the rebuilding process that has yet to begin. 

He's murmuring curses as he blindly stumbles towards the bathroom, eyes refusing to open. "Bloody wankers…get up before the sun…a fucking joke…" 

He braces himself against the sink, holding either side. Leaning towards the mirror. Gazing through bleary eyes at his exhausted reflection in the speckled glass. "You need some more sleep, mate." He watches himself say the words. Knowing that they're true. Knowing that they're not going to happen. 

He looks at himself. He looks old. Older than he is. He's twenty-four years old. Yet looks ten years older than that. His short hair's a mess. Flying in every direction. And he's so freckled. Completely covered in them. So many freckles he looks tanned. He groans and grabs his toothbrush. 

He's making a list of things he has to do while brushing his teeth. Shower. Eat. Visit the infirmary. Check in with Laurence. That is, if he's out of the infirmary. Re-check the perimeters. Make sure boundaries, guards and spells are still intact. Check on the Norwegian. And the Fireball. Try not to die. Or burn to a crisp. Oh, and read that letter from home. 

He'll save that one for last. 

.

"I didn't know I'd have to take the bloody train! Couldn't I just Apparate?" Tonks is gazing at Mrs. Weasley expectantly. 

"Now, you know, Tonks, as well as I do. There are laws regarding stuff like this. International Apparation Laws. You can't just go popping over into another country!" She looks at her as though she's just a child. A petulant child. 

"But, Molly, really, couldn't I — " 

"The train, Tonks. The train." 

"But, seriously! Molly! You know me. I can scarcely sit through dinner. How the bloody hell do you expect me to sit on a train all the way to Romania? I'll go mad!" 

"Watch your language." Molly looks irritated. She looks at her the way she looks at the twins. "Now. Here is your ticket. 9 and ¾, as always. The train leaves in an hour, so best quit your complaining and get on over there." She sees Tonks's dismayed expression. "You'll be back tonight." 

Tonks takes the ticket out of her hand, still frowning slightly. It really wasn't the train ride that was bothering her. She could handle that. Easily. It was the whole trip in general. She's anxious and nervous and hasn't the slightest clue how to deal with these feelings. She's off to a foreign country to meet up with a man who might still hate her. It was your fault, you know. Her frown deepens. 

Molly looks at her curiously. Trying to figure out the strange woman in front of her. "Something the matter, dear?" 

The frown shifts into a forced smile. "Not at all." Her smile widens, convincing the mother of Charlie Weasley that everything is perfect in her little world. "Well, guess I'm off then. Bye, Molly." 

"Bye, Tonks." The older woman closes the gap, slightly, between them. She places a hand on her arm. Always the matriarch. Even for those not in her family. "Be careful." 

Tonks laughs. Surprised the woman cares so much. "When am I not?" She swings an arm around, accenting her words. Knocking the kettle to the floor, splashing the hot liquid through the dank kitchen. How ironic… 

"Oh, Merlin. I am so sorry, Molly. So, so, so sorry. Please, here, let me — "

Molly holds up her hand, walking Tonks out of the room. Looking like she needs a good nap and a stiff drink. "No, no. Leave it to me. You need to get going. Charlie will be waiting for you at the station. Go, go." Shooing her away like a pesky fruit fly. Who should know better than to stick around. 

She waves lamely, feeling the class fool. With a crack she disappears. 

.

He left his boots outside last night. And of course it rained. 

"Today is not your day." He's talking to himself again. Not sure when he fell into that particular habit. He's talking as his wet boots squish and his toes go numb. He mutters a spell, grateful for the warmth. 

Walking, he idly runs a hand over his left arm. Feeling the scar there. Still hurts a little. Twinges more than it should. Supposed to heal over time. The way most things are supposed to do. He's not there yet. 

"Oi! Charlie!" He looks up to see Will racing over to join him. 

"Hey," he calls in greeting. Grateful for the company. "How'd patrol go last night?" 

"Could've been better. Could've been a whole lot worse." Will pauses, his features slanting downward. Looking concerned, worried. Frustrated. "Charlie. Have you noticed that wood over there?" 

Charlie looks where Will is pointing, spying a dense forest. A tangle of foliage and fallen leaves. Dark as the eye can see. _What's he on about?_ "Yeah. Kind of hard to miss, don't you think?" he quips sarcastically. _Where's he going with this?_

He punches Charlie lightly. "I'm being fucking serious! Last night the dragons we got in the paddock down on the South Bend near those bloody woods were acting real sketchy. Trying to keep back from it. Didn't make any fucking sense." 

Slightly worried, more intrigued than anything, Charlie looks off at the trees. No birds were flying overhead. 

"You think something's back in there?" 

Will shrugs. "Damned if I know. That'd be my best guess, though. Bloody bizarre. You should have seen 'em last night. Stomping and carrying on. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were scared. But they're dragons, for Merlin's sake. What the fuck do they have to be afraid of?" 

Charlie could only think of one thing. And he didn't dare offer it as a possibility. He'd tried convincing some of his return. They rather believe the _Daily Prophet_ though. Will included. 

He stops walking. Runs a hand through red hair. The sun is just now coming up. Illuminating the scene. He watches as the fog rolls in. 

Abruptly, he turns to Will. "I'll let Laurence know."

_As well as Dumbledore…_

.

Platform 9 and ¾. It had been awhile. Suddenly, she's a few inches shorter and clutching her mother's hand. About to climb aboard the Hogwarts Express. 

Hogwarts. 

Charlie. 

_It's been what? Seven years?_ She hands off her ticket. Steps aboard. Searches for an empty compartment. _Yes. Seven years. Merlin, that's a long time._ She locates one and swings the door open, stepping inside. _I wonder if he still hates me._ She sits. Impulsively pulling her knees to her chest. 

Minutes pass and the whistle screams. She feels the wheels move beneath her. The gentle rocking motion of the compartment as the train departs the station. 

The compartment is stuffy. Too warm for her. But the window next to her seat is stuck and refuses to budge. Too lazy to pull out her wand, she remains in the heat. And begins to doze off. 

Just as her eyes begin to close, she hears a knock. Looking over at the sliding door, she spies a woman. An old woman. An old woman who looks oddly familiar. She opens the door slowly and feebly walks in. 

"Is it alright if I join you?" She peers at Tonks through her over-sized glasses. Her white hair untamed. Stray strands falling in her eyes. 

Tonks merely nods. The woman smiles. Taking a seat across from her. Placing her hands, heavily decorated with rings on every finger, in her lap. 

Tonks looks away. She has too much on her mind. 

She remembers parts of Hogwarts so well. She remembers some parts so well it's almost frightening, while the others have just faded over time. He had been one of the great Gryffindors. A seeker for their Quidditch team. Leading the House to glory. He had been attractive. Popular. Never without a friend. She had been a Hufflepuff. But she never seemed to belong. She was loud. Abrasive at times. Sweet, but never humble. Naughty and occasionally nice. She had always managed to find her share of trouble. 

She had played Quidditch too. Not nearly as well, nor as famously. But it's how they met. It was her fifth year. And his sixth. She had gone down to the pitch to practice. Desperate to win the next match, desperate to prove herself. She had been flying and diving. Swooping and soaring. And he had come along. 

Somehow they ended up sitting in the grass talking for most of the night. She can't remember a word that was said. None of it was flirtatious. None was deep and philosophical. It was just banter. Witty banter going back and forth. Nagging and teasing. Jousting with their words. And something that night had been established. Something that to her had felt so strangely right. 

They had remained friends after that, to the shock of their own friends. Charlie Weasley was the Hogwarts Hero. Good-looking. Smart. Athletic. Friendly. Nymphadora Tonks was the trouble-maker. Spending more time in detention than in her own bedroom. She was clever. Quick. Sarcastic. Openly goofy and nonsensical. But the two got along. Quite well. 

But it seems that boys and girls can never just remain friends. Feelings always have to be added into the mix and that's usually when it all just boils over. They had been no exception. 

She was a sixth year and he was a seventh year. And he finally asked her out. They were the odd couple. The two who inexplicably worked. They'd bicker and poke fun at one another. They'd laugh. Mainly at each other. They were wild and fun and magnetic. But never serious. 

She remembers those days. Going to the Three Broomsticks and drinking butterbeer while she made him laugh so hard it'd shoot out his nose. She remembers their own Quidditch "practices." They always ended the same way. She remembers the way he used to blush every time he'd attempt something romantic. The way she could make him smile. How easy it was to get him going. How he preferred her "natural" look to all the others. She remembers telling him secrets late at night in the Common Room while she laid in his lap and he mindlessly stroked her hair. How he'd kiss her. No one had ever kissed her the way he did. With that odd mixture of sincerity and desire. She remembers teasing him about his love of dragons. And how they'd sneak down to the Forbidden Forest. Up to the Astronomy Tower. She definitely remembers that. 

There had been a fight. She can't remember what it had started over. She just remembers how ugly it got. The things they said to each other. Right before the holidays. 

He had gone away for Christmas Break that year. She had chosen to stay behind. There had been a Christmas bash and she drank too much. She remembers that clearly. She slept with a Ravenclaw. _What was his name? What the bloody hell was his name?_ She remembers the guilt. And the shame. And how she didn't come out of her room for a full day. 

He had come back. Oblivious. Still not on the best of terms. She remembers how he came over to her at dinner and apologized. And how she had accepted and offered her own in return. They were supposed to be on track. But she remembers what a mess she was. And how eventually someone spilled the beans. She'll never forget that look on his face. That look of horror and shock and pain and grief. And anger. She had never heard him yell like that. She never wanted to hear him yell like that again. Yelled about how he had loved her and trusted her and how this is how she pays him back. The things he yelled still sting today. The words he used. The names he called her. _You deserved it though…_

He left Hogwarts that year without saying another word to her. 

_You deserved it. And you know it._

It's amazing how guilty she still feels. As though it happened yesterday as opposed to seven years ago.

She looks up. And the old lady is looking at her. Looking at her sadly, mournfully. And Tonks doesn't understand. It's actually kind of making her angry. This strange woman. Pitying her. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" 

The woman doesn't smile. She shakes her head. "Your baby…" Her voice is raspy. The words sound choked, struggling to reach the air. 

"My _what_?" Tonks hands instinctively fly to her lower belly. She doesn't know whether to feel insulted or not. She had always considered herself quite fit. 

"Baby…" she rasps again. Her eyes are strange and unfocused. Her lips clenched together, The lines around them pulled tightly. Making her skin look like creased leather. She's rocking back and forth, back and forth. A halo of frizz around her head. She gasps noisily. Tonks flies up. Not sure what's going on. "Born out of love from the unwed. Blood that flows through his veins shall be the key. Open the demise of the father, the grief of the mother. The power…to…the…Dark Lord." She starts shaking. Violently. Head banging the wall behind her, body seizuring. Suddenly, she falls backward. Eyes wide open, mouth gaping, a fish out of water. Chest rising and falling rapidly. A roller coaster in motion. 

Her breathing slows and her chest stills. Her eyes are still wide. And empty. Tonks just stands there. Shocked. Shaken. Completely confused.

She can hear her own ragged breathing echoing through the closed compartment. Fogging the windows. 

"Ma'am?" Ma'am?" she whispers, tip-toeing over to the woman. She's not moving. She prods her arm gently with her finger. "Ma'am?" Her voice is louder this time. She can feel the panic rising in her chest. "Hey! Hey!" She's yelling now. She runs to the door, forgetting it's closed, and her knee collides with it. Hard. "Fuck," she mutters. She throws the door open and races down the hall. 

.

The train slows as it reaches the Romanian station. 

Tonks is sitting there. In a different department. Back hunched and shoulders slumped. The woman had died. Died. And Tonks couldn't even begin to understand what had exactly happened back there. The words she had said… _What was she talking about? My baby? I'm not pregnant. I'm not having any baby._

She shakes her head. Attempting to drive the memory out. _"The power to the Dark Lord." No no no no no no no. Stop. She didn't mean me. She was old and confused and obviously ill. She did not mean me. She wasn't talking about me. No._

The train has stopped and she is desperate to disembark. She steps down onto an old platform. The station is nothing like London's. It's old and underused. She looks around quickly for him. Looks around for red hair. And freckles. 

He's not there. 

_Oh, no. Oh, no no no. He's here. Somewhere. Just in the loo. That's it. He's here._

She waits. For an hour. He never comes. 

"Oh, bugger," she whispers to no one but herself. 

_He must really hate me. I mean really, really hate me. But, it's Order business. And this is Charlie. Charlie is not irresponsible. Or, wasn't. But would he really blow off the Order?_

_I guess this means I have to get him…_

Standing up slowly, hating the day more and more, she walks over to a conductor. 

"Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me how to get to the dragon camps?" 

.

Crack. 

"Oh, shit." Tonks had arrived. In style, of course. 

She had just Apparated into a pile of dragon dung. 

"Could this day be anymore perfect?" 

She stands, disgusted. She reeks. The whole place reeks. She looks around. The place is a mess. Trampled tents and broken fences. For a second she feels worried. 

"Good going, Tonks. Way to get yourself in a real bloody fiasco." She continues to mutter to herself as she hoists herself up and over the broken fence. 

Then she hears footsteps. From behind. Auror training at the forefront of her mind, she reaches for her wand. 

.

He heard the crack. Someone is here. 

Carefully making his way to what was once the Norwegian's paddock, he spots someone. Leaping over the fence. 

In a matter of steps he's behind the intruder. 

"You! Yeah! You there! Turn around!" The intruder complies. He can sense the caution in the movement, not sure what comes next. He's never had to deal with trespassers. 

The intruder stops. It's a woman. A small woman. Covered in shit. Heart-shaped face and cool grey eyes. Brown hair with colored streaks. 

_Oh, Merlin. It's her. It's her. It's really her._

He doesn't know how he managed to find his voice. "Tonks? Tonks? That you?" 

She smiles slightly. Chuckles nervously. 

"Wotcher, Charlie."

.

.

.


	3. Chapter Three: Robbery of Light and Life

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: No way, no how, is J.K. Rowling spelled F-a-l-s-e-E-y-e-l-a-s-h-e-s. Unfortunately. If it was, I would certainly be in the money.

Rating: R (language, violence, sex — the usual)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Three: Robbery of Light and Life**

What is this great evil? How did it steal into the world? From what seed, what root did it spring? Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Robbing us of light and life. Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known. — _The Thin Red Line_

.

.

.

She's so small. Has she always been this small? So delicate and breakable. He can see himself lunging forward and snapping her arms, relishing the resounding snap.

He doesn't remember her as being this pale. A ghost of her former self. Dark hair hanging in grey eyes. Grey eyes that are scanning his face. Curious. Searching for emotion, a trace of the man beneath the mask.

He knows she won't find what she's looking for. She never did.

Here she is. After all these years. Seven years. Yes. Seven. Seven long, short, terrific, terrible years.

He wonders if she still smells the same.

He wonders if she still feels the same when you hold her.

Her promises himself that he won't be the one to find out.

They've been standing there for what seems now like too long. Her eyes haven't left his face. His eyebrows in particular. She won't look him in the eye. And they both know why. They just won't acknowledge it. Not here, not now. Not when both of them have their wands out, drawn and ready. Pointed directly at each other's hearts.

He clears his throat, the sound gruff. He needs to say something. The silence is making his head spin.

"Um, Tonks. What the fuck are you doing here?" Not the most eloquent greeting he can conjure. But then again, it's always been like this. His tongue refusing to budge, his words not making sense. Saying the things that he's trying so hard to repress.

She frowns, confusion apparent. "What are you talking about?" He realizes that they still have their wands pointed at each other. Poised to kill. Or maim at the very least. He can't bring himself to lower his arm.

"I'm talking about you standing here, in Romania of all places. Covered in dragon shit and not surprised in the slightest to see me, while _I_ am completely floored."

She sighs, runs a hand through her messy hair. Brushing it off her forehead. He can see her eyes now. They're hers. The trademark Black grey. She lowers her wand and murmurs. " _Scourgify_." She's clean. And shining. But she was always shiny in his eyes. Bright. Exuberant. Sparkling. She's holding a limp piece of hair in her hand. She scrunches her nose up, and her hair morphs into a deep black, cut off at her chin. She looks like those old pictures he's seen. Of those women in the 1920's. In the short dresses, with the funny make-up and dance moves.

He's staring.

She fixes him with a look. He remembers that look. The look that said 'you're-a-complete-prat-and-I-can't-believe-I-actually-waste-time-on-you.'

"You really need to start reading your mail."

_What?_

Oh. The owl. The note. _Where the hell did I leave it?_

"They sent me. The Order. They sent me over here to get you. I mean, we couldn't owl you the details. Then we'd have to tell you where Headquarters were, and if the letter was intercepted, that'd be just terrible, and, well then we'd be in a world of trouble, and that was obviously not what we wanted. And I couldn't just apparate over here, or at least that's what your mum says, so yes. They sent me to take you with me to the train station and ride off into London."

This is how she used to always talk. Fast and hurried. Not pausing for breath. Connecting one idea with the next until it was just a tangled mess of thoughts. Her thoughts. Her own re-telling of a story. Confusing the past with the present and the names with the places.

"Did anyone…say why they needed me? Exactly?"

"I am but the lowly messenger." She smirks. Merlin, seven years of trying to forget. All proved to be in vain in the last seven minutes.

_Fuck, I need a smoke._ He always hated how she did this to him. Reduce him to this blithering idiot. Made him think and feel and say things he didn't mean.

_Not this time. No. Not this time._

"Well. I suppose we should get going then. Lead on."

She's staring at him as though he's gone mad.

"Um. Well. Don't you think you'll need some stuff? Namely clothing. And other personal items. And don't you have to tell your…boss or whoever that you're leaving?"

_Damn it. Blasted details._

"Right. Um. Yes. This way." He begins to walk. Drudge through the muddy grass in heavy boots. Knowing she's right behind her. Feeling her eyes bore into his skull. And he wants to run and pretend this day never began. Things with her never end well.

Here he is, seven years later. Still acting the teenage boy he once was.

.

He called her Tonks. Tonks. Just Tonks. Tonks. Tonks. _Tonks._

He never used to call her by her last name. The others did. But the others were different.

She was Dora. Dora. Dora. His Dora.

She remembers how delicious her name would sound falling from his lips. Sometimes tinged with laughter. Other times with lust.

Dora. So much gentler than Tonks.

'Tonks' just sounded clumsy. Awkward. Bulky. It wasn't pretty. _But he's not supposed to think I'm pretty._ No. Not at all.

He looks good, she muses to herself. Following him as he begins to walk. _He always did have a great arse…_ She's not supposed to be thinking these things. But she is. Thinking about how good his hair looks and how he's almost tanned.

_So many freckles…I want to count them all and call them mine…_

She's not supposed to feel this way. It's been over for years. Seven of them. It's been closed and shut and sealed and you're just not supposed to keep wandering there.

But seeing him just makes her think of him in all the wrong ways. Horizontal ways, to be exact.

He was always perfect. In her head. Perfect and right and never wrong.

He was always her moral compass. Even now. She wonders what he would have to say on this subject, or that one. How he particularly feels about a given issue and the argument he'd create to defend it. She'll fuck up and ponder as to what his reaction and subsequent response might have been. And it's easy to peg. He was always predictable. Which makes missing him a little easier.

She wonders where they might be now if she hadn't been so stupid.

They've been walking in silence and the lack of communication is killing her. She coughs into her fist and prepares to take the plunge.

"So, Charlie…you like living here?" _Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame._ She has always wished she was a more eloquent speaker. Now being one of those times.

"Yeah. Sure. Gets a little lonely…but we deal. Pretty rustic. I miss living in an actual house, but I, um, have gotten used to it. All." He sounds just as much at a loss for words as she does.

"Oh. Well. That's just…splendid." _Splendid?_ She was Nymphadora bloody Tonks. When was she ever at a lack of words?

She imagines that he's smiling. But she doubts it. One usually doesn't smile at the one who pierced their heart, stomped on it and ran away. Not as a rule or anything. But smiling usually feels like the last thing one wants to do.

"So, we're, uh, taking the train?" His discomfort evident in his words.

"Yeah. Later this afternoon. Luckily. Otherwise we'd be in…uh, quite the pickle." Oh, Merlin. She really needs to stop talking. She's beginning to sound like one of her father's friends. One of her father's friends with one of the most bizarre vocabularies.

"Quite the pickle…" She can hear him repeating her words. She wonders if he's mocking her. But he's a Weasley and that woman raised her sons right and he wouldn't mock someone when they're just a couple of paces behind them. Would he?

They've arrived at a tent. A boring, burlap looking tent. "So, right," he begins. She wishes she could take comfort in the fact that he doesn't like this anymore than she does. But she doesn't. "I'm going to go get some of my…stuff. You can go wait in there, if you want." Her eyes follow his pointed finger. An even bigger tent. The Mess Hall, she assumes.

"Okay…well. Take your time." She waves. Kind of. Mainly just her arm flopping up and then back down.

She walks away, at a sideways angle. Still watching him. Watching him watch her. And she's moving. And then hits the side of the tent. "Bloody hell…" she mutters. Spinning around. And just walking straight away.

She's afraid he may be smiling.

.

Clumsy. Silly girl with silly feet that never seemed to follow the instructions her brain was desperately sending out.

She hasn't changed a bit.

He finds this comforting.

And troublesome all the same.

He's in the room he shares with the others. Throwing clothes into a bag. Not even bothering with magic. Sometimes just doing things the 'normal' way is just as easy. Sometimes.

Basically he just sucks at packing by magic.

He can't find his other glove. And they're his favorite pair. He's not sure he'll need gloves in London, but they're nice to have, and as long as he's thinking about gloves she shouldn't pop into his head. But she just keeps tripping, over and over again, blushing and looking ten years younger.

_She's aged a lot…_

And it's not just in her appearance he noticed. It was the way she carried herself. Like the world was on her shoulders, and one wrong step and her spine would shrivel.

_She is a bloody Auror after all…and Mum thought I chose a stressful career._

He remembers hearing about her. Bill had told him. That Tonks was in the Order. And he had been surprised. Asked him why. And Bill explained.

The Tonks he knew wasn't an Auror. She was a girl with an eccentric talent and equally unique personality. And knack for trouble. She's a woman now. Yes. She most certainly was.

_Think about the glove…the glove…the bloody glove…_

.

Suddenly she feels breathless. Sitting there. In a dank old tent. On a bench. An old and wooden bench that is rotting away beneath her.

She's breathless. Sitting there. Staring into her diluted tea. It was shoved into her hands the second she pushed the flap aside. Hospitable. These Romanian dragon-keepers.

She didn't want the tea. But took it to be polite.

Seeing him unleashed something. Something deep within her. Unlocked a door she thought was long buried and swept away. Releasing images and snippets of memories that matter only to her. She's drowning in nostalgia and choking on the guilt. Bittersweet… She's learning the meaning of that word. And it's a rather painful lesson.

She hadn't realized how much she had missed him. There had been no good-byes exchanged between the two of them before he left. He was just gone. And she was supposed to move on.

The guilt clawing at her chest makes her want to scream. But that may scare the dragons and she really doesn't want to get trampled. Not today. She can only imagine Moody's reaction. _Constant vigilance!_

She starts to chuckle to herself. Thinking of the grizzled old man. She snorts, her cheeks flushed. She looks up and finds herself eye to eye with him. Charlie Weasley.

He's looking at her funny. She sobers up quickly, taking a sip of her tepid tea. _Disgusting…how does he live on this shit?_

She smiles at him. Mouth closed. "Ready?"

He merely nods. She stands. Knocking over the bench. "Sorry…sorry…" She goes to step over it, catching her foot on the edge and pitches forward. And smacks someone in the chest. Hard. That someone grips her wrist, preventing her from bashing her head on the table behind her.

"Cor, you all right there?" Her head whips around, her own hair blinding her for a second.

She doesn't recognize him. At all.

She merely smiles. Untangles herself from the bench, her cloak. And the stranger.

He has quite the blinding smile. "Don't believe we've been introduced as of yet. Name's Will." He extends a hand. She takes it into hers, blushing at her chipped black nail polish.

"Tonks," she offers. He looks confused.

"Pardon?"

"My name. Tonks. Actually it's Nymphadora Tonks, but like only two people in the entire universe get away with calling me that. So, it's Tonks. Yes. Tonks." He seems amused. But then again, that may just be his normal expression.

"So, Tonks, fellow dragon-tamer?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but is beat to the chase. "No, no. She's with me actually. Quite the surprise, actually." _She's with me…_ Her heart shouldn't speed up like that. And it's not. Nope. Not at all.

"Oh! Blimey! She's with you, eh? Why didn't you say anything, Charlie-boy?" She's blushing. Flaming red. _Oh, Merlin. Could this be any more fucking awkward?_ "Didn't know you had a girl all your own, you sly —"

"We're not like that." She finally looks up. He's oddly pale. Compared to her reddened state. His jaw is set. She can hear his teeth grinding.

_Fix it, Tonks. Fix it._

"No! No, no, no! We're, um, old friends. Went to school together. But that was bloody ages ago. But I was in the area, and I thought I'd stop over and, you know, say hello. And then we thought, wouldn't it just be brill if he came back to London with me?" She's on a roll. Lying as always come easy to her. This he learned the hard way. "I mean, he's got his mum and his whole family over there, and they haven't seen him in forever…so he's taking a little trip with me."

Will claps an arm on Charlie's shoulder. "Excellent, mate. You need a fucking break." He laughs. Loudly. Uproariously. Charlie does as well. A little. But there's no humor there. She can tell.

She's not sure what's so bloody funny.

"Unfortunately, not all of us are so lucky. I'm 'fraid I've got to get my arse back out there. See you when you get back, Weasley. And nice to meet you, Tonks." He waves and then he's off.

She turns to Charlie. "Well. He's…colorful."

And he laughs. A real laugh. Not the pretend one from seconds before. The Weasley laugh. His laugh. The noise she used to be able to draw out of him. It's beautifully familiar.

"That is quite the understatement…"

She just smiles. She doesn't want to ruin the moment.

.

They're outside again.

It's an ugly day. Sad and dreary. Grey skies and threatening clouds. Nothing about it is picturesque.

He's leading the way. Bag slung over shoulder. Walking down the earth path, footprints baking it into the ground.

He can't bring himself to turn around. He's afraid of what he may do. To her.

He inhales. The cold air creeping into his chest. He loves it here. He really does. And cannot believe he's heading back to London. With her. Her of all people.

She's half the reason he ended up here…

He's musing to himself as they wind their way through tents and trees and dragon paddocks. And then he hears it. A deafening crack that echoes through the trees and in his skull.

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

He spins around. To her. Clutching her wand in one hand. Her stance displaying her readiness.

He can see the same question mirrored in her eyes.

And then they hear it. The shouts. The screams. The curses.

She's running and he's following. The underbrush clutching to his pants, branches clawing at his arms. He can hear his breathing and he can hear their yelling. He sees the smoke and the fire and her back.

_We're under attack…we're under attack…but why?_

He can't make sense of it. His hands are sweaty and he can't figure it all out. Why they'd come here. To Romania of all places.

.

_This is what you trained for…this is what you trained for…this is what you trained for…_

She's nervous and scared and hates the fact that she doesn't have the upper-hand in this situation.

_They're not supposed to be here…there's no bloody reason for them to have come here…_

She has no supervisor. No commander. No superior. No one barking orders at her and telling her what to do.

She's in charge.

They're out of the woods and into the clearing. And they're everywhere. Hooded figures in black, shooting lines of green into the crowds. Dragons are screaming and shooting fire. Yelling and shouting and collapsing and dying. The world is falling down.

She swallows. Willing courage to course through her.

She turns to him. And his ashen expression. _They're not supposed to be here…_

"Take them out. Stun them. Petrify them. Do whatever you have to do." She's amazed she kept her voice so calm. Amazed she's not shaking.

She meets his eyes. And knows that he understands.

And then they're in the thick of it. Dodging curses and throwing out their own. Her voice is hoarse and she's lost count of how many she's been able to stun. _"Avada Kedavra"_ circling all around her. Stepping over the dead. Leaping over the fallen. She almost feels sick.

And then she feels it. Cold. Icy fingers gripping at her soul. Trying to deprive her of life.

The scene is falling away from her _…"What an ugly little girl…""That's Aunt Bella…we don't visit with her anymore…""Mudblood…filthy little wretch…""You whore…you lied to me! Fucking lied!" "I'm sorry, doll…she's…she's gone…Mum is…oh, Jesus…"_

" **NO**!" She's cold and she's shaking and she can feel the sweat dripping off her forehead.

She looks over. Over to the woods. And she sees them. Gliding towards them. Dark shadow-like figures sweeping down on them.

Dementors.

_No no no no no no no…_ It's gone from bad to worse. Much worse.

There are so many and they're so close and there are so many of them and they won't make it and they'll be dead and she'll be dead and he'll be dead…

She has to pull herself together.

Breathing heavily, she braces herself. Throws her head back and remembers. Remembers everything… "Expecto Patronum!"

She watches it, the silver mist morphing into what everyone calls a lizard. _But it's not! It's a chameleon and it's so bloody clichéd it makes me sick…_

She watches them hit it, watches them bounce away. Fly away. Swirling and dancing and swooping and gone.

Chest heaving she looks up, pushing the hair out of her face. The field is decorated with bodies. Cold, still, lifeless. The black figures still there, the Death Eaters. Wandering among the dying and those struggling to live. Picking them off. One by one.

She feels sick and dizzy and wants to leave. She has a gash in her robes by her left shoulder. She can feel the blood oozing its way down her arm. She can't feel the pain though. _Shock. It's the shock._

She sees him. Sees him being backed into a corner. Backed into a corner if that's possible in this clearing. But he's up against the wall of the dragon compound and there's three of them and they are all pointed at him. _Three of them and one of him._

She doesn't know how she got there so quickly. She's not sure what happened next. She does know she rolled over and was face to face with a cold, grey Death Eater. Standing, she realizes there are two left.

She can't find her wand…

"He wants them unharmed. He said he wants them to still be alive." The voice is slippery, sickening. Oddly familiar.

_Where the fuck is my wand?_

She takes a step back. And hears a crunch. A crunch that breaks her heart in half.

_My wand…_

They all look to her. The two Death Eaters. And Charlie. Who is covered in blood. She can feel the bile rising in her throat. She's going to puke she's going to die she's going to be sick and die and so will he.

_Charlie doesn't have a wand either…_

_Oh, Merlin._

_No. We can't die yet. He wants us. Unharmed. That means alive. Of course it means alive. But I'd rather die than be sent to him…_

She's realizes that at this moment that is entirely possible.

It's a strange face-off. Like those films her father used to watch. Westerns. So American. With the cowboys and the boots and the guns and the duel in the town square. Walk ten paces, turn. And shoot.

She wonders which of them will take the bullet.

The tense moment is shattered.

" _Stupefy_!" The cry comes from behind her left shoulder. She looks carefully.

It's Will. And he's hit one of the two Death Eaters.

But then it's as though time sped up, going in hyper-speed. People moving way too fast and words coming out way too slow.

They shout at the same time.

_"Stupefy!"_

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

She's diving for his feet and Charlie's lunging forward. She hears a body fall and hears a grunt from above her.

She's not sure where Charlie got the knife. But it's now firmly embedded in black cloth. And flesh.

She turns around. Knowing what she'll find.

She hates it when she's right…

Charlie sees it too. Will. Face first in the grass. Immobile. Cold. Dead.

He's just staring and staring. And staring. And she hurts for him. She's been there before. And is sure she'll return there sooner rather than later.

But this place is too much and they shouldn't be here. Not now. Not when the enemy is slowly coming to and when you're wanted by the Dark Lord himself.

_"The power…to…the Dark Lord…"_

She shoves it to the back of her mind. She doesn't have time to think about the ramblings of a dying old woman. Not now at least.

She knows what they have to do now.

**Run.**

.

.

.


	4. Chapter Four: Two Drifters

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling I am not.

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

 

.

.

.

**Chapter Four: Two Drifters**

"Two drifters, off to see the world;   
There's such a lot of world to see   
We're after the same rainbow's end   
Waiting 'round the bend…" 

\- _"Moon River" — Henry Mancini_

.

.

.

They take off. Running. She hears the lone Death Eater yell. Yell and she feels something hit her back. Hits her. And knocks the wind right out.

She feels funny for a second. Weak. Tired. Like she's missing something. Inside. It's gone. But she's not sure what it is.

They keep going. Charlie still by her side.

She's running. She's running. Running running running. Running with the wind to her face and the dirt to her shoes. Running. And panting. And there's a stitch in her side and she swears that she could just pass out and die. Right there and then. But wouldn't that defeat the purpose of all this? Running and breathing heavily.

She's running and it hurts. She's running and knows that she left her wand back there. Broken. Into shards and splinters. Laid to rest among the dead. The dead and pale. And gone.

She wonders if they're next. And knows that for once it's not a morbid thought. Rather, it's a rational observation and question.

She's running. And feels vulnerable. A witch without her wand. She might as well be screaming and waving her arms about. Jumping up and down in the air. Begging for them to find her. She may be stronger than she looks. But considering she looks almost fourteen, that's not saying a whole lot. She's scrawny. And she knows it. She's petite. And she prefers that term to "small."

Long black hair whips past her face. Long. Black. Long. Her hair wasn't long a little while ago. _Did I change without realizing it? It's possible...but why would I?_ It's happened before. Long ago. When she was young. Young and immature.

She's running. And trying. Trying to change her appearance. To anything. She's panting and trying. And realizes it's not working. And knows exactly what she was hit in the back with.

A spell. A spell that's merely spoken of and hardly ever used. She's not even sure it has a name. It's just The Spell. Not even found in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts. A spell. That strips a witch, a wizard. Strips them of their magic.

She's without a wand. She's without her magic.

She's never been so scared before.

.

He can hear her panting. And wonders if they should stop.

He has a bag slung over one shoulder. His bag. And how he remembered or managed to grab it on his way out is completely beyond him. But he did. And is plenty grateful.

He knows they're in deep shit. And he hasn't a fucking clue as to how they'll get out of it.

They've been running for what seems like forever. She, running too fast for her own good. He, running at her pace. He could go faster. He knows this. Feels it in his legs. The steady burn creeping up his calves. Trying to fight its way to his thighs. Make him burn. Make him burn and want want to break away. Sprint off through the woods. But he'd rather be behind than in front. Behind her. Keeping with her stride.

He's refusing to look any deeper into this.

He can see light. See it drift through the trees and illuminate their path. He can see light. _We're almost there…almost out of here…almost…_

They reach the edge. The edge of the woods. The edge of the trees. The edge of reason.

There's a clearing. A clearing overrun. By weeds and grass and those flowers that really aren't flowers but everyone calls them that anyway.

She's doubled over next to him. Clutching her side. Trying to hold it all in. Hold herself together.

She's red in the face. Flushed. Face half hidden by dark hair. Dark, dark hair. Darker than she's ever worn it. Dark and long and hanging past her shoulders. She never liked long hair. She told him this once. Made her feel too feminine. Too typical. She'd be the girl with short hair. For no other reason than to spite the others.

He wonders why she chose to make it long.

He likes it though. Likes the way it cascades around her. Likes to imagine what it'd feel like. Spilling through his fingers. Rolled up in his fist.

_No._

And it's enough. To silence him for awhile.

"What…now…?" She's looking at him. Still gasping. Waiting for him to answer. He thought Aurors were in better shape than this. He knows better than to say it out-loud.

He's about to answer, when he hears something. Cracking branches behind them. His hand goes to his pocket. He feels sick. Sick with dread and realization. He doesn't have a wand. And he remembers…she doesn't either.

_We are so fucked. So completely and utterly fucked._

He watches a rabbit race across their forest scene. Feels foolish for his fear. Foolish for forgetting his wand. But remembering a bag of clothes.

He knows that she's watching him. And he's afraid to face her.

"You don't have one either, do you?" She poses it as a statement. Rather than a question. Stating the facts and knowing the answer.

He nods. And turns to her. She looks like a doll. A child's little doll. A porcelain doll. Pale skin stained pink. Wide grey eyes framed by lashes that reach to her eyebrows. Dark hair hanging. A few strands swept across her forehead.

She looks so young and he feels so old.

And he knows. Knows that she's real. That this is the real Nymphadora Tonks. He just wonders why she chose now of all times to display herself.

"We don't have magic anymore," she whispers. Looking at him. With those big eyes and heavy lashes.

He doesn't understand. Understand her meaning. Understand how she knows. Understand how she can be so calm.

"You felt it, didn't you? When we left. He hit us. In the back." He's never seen her so subdued before. And decides it doesn't suit her.

But he remembers what she's speaking of. The strange pain. And the way nothing has felt right since. And he knows she's right. He just never thought it was possible. The spell. And for her to be right.

So he just nods. Nods his head in a circle. Surveying the field before him. And he spots it. The corner in the horizon. A building. Or at least a roof.

"There…" He's talking to himself, and she has decided to listen in.

"Where?"

"There. Over there. There's a building." She's looking where's he pointed. She doesn't look appeased.

"What's there?"

He hasn't thought this far ahead. For some reason, just seeing the building made him think there they would find help. She apparently doesn't follow the same stream of consciousness.

"Well…" He realizes how ridiculous he is in that little moment. How bloody ridiculous.

"You do realize that Muggles most likely live there? We're out of our world, Charlie.What were you expecting to do, march in there? Ask if you could nick a spot of floo powder?"

Which was exactly what he had been expecting. But he won't tell her this.

Charlie has always been a quick thinker. Good on his feet. Mentally and physically. Now is no exception.

"I was thinking we could find a way to Bucharest and hop the train to London. Once there, we'd get to Headquarters and go from there." He's quite proud of himself. His spur of the moment plan sounds almost plausible.

He can see her considering it. Trying the idea on for size. Letting it roll around her head for a little. Realizes that she's actually a little surprised. He's offended. Slightly.

"I guess…well, it does seem to be our only option, now doesn't it?"

He swallows his pride. And lets her lead the way.-

.

She wonders how far they've gone. How long they've been traveling on foot. The building seemed a lot closer way back in the woods. And looked a lot more promising. The closer they get, the more decrepit it appears. And in all actuality it's a gas station. Local fill-up station. She wonders when the last car ever even drove through here.

Charlie's been asking questions ever since they left. Random, nervous little questions. How far London is from Bucharest. She wasn't sure. How big the wizarding community is in Romania. She wasn't sure. And felt he was probably more likely to know the answer than she was. What they would do about money. And for once she had an answer for this.

"My dad set up a Muggle account for me. Long time ago. Back in…You-Know-Who's first reign. A "just-in-case" kind of thing. He was always a bit paranoid like that. Was convinced the wizarding world was going to fall to shambles, and he wanted us to be ready in case. So, um, I've got money. Not sure how much. But it's there."

Her rambling seemed to calm him down. This surprised her.

The dirt road they've been walking along side became paved at some point. She's not sure when they passed into civilization. Must have been recent.

They're getting closer. She wonders how far off Bucharest is. She wonders where Bucharest even is. The city I arrived in this morning? She hadn't seen anything but the inside of the train station. And not much at that. She misses the ability to apparate.

She hears tires squealing and an engine running. She senses Charlie's apprehension, how he's just been shocked out of his thoughts. She always forgets how sheltered the Weasley boys are. How knowledgeable she apparently is in comparison.

"It's a car."

He glares at her. "I know." Biting words. Angry tone. She suddenly wants to laugh.

It's a cab. A taxi. With the little triangle thing on top. Advertising topless dancers at a Bucharest strip club. A fancy hotel on the other side. _Classy…_

It pulls into the station. Dust billowing behind it. Screeching to a halt.

She watches him get out. Watches the driver step out. And head towards the closed doors. And realizes he left the keys in the car.

She can feel the smile. Feel the smile creeping its way across her face.

She whips her head around to look at him. He sees her excitement. And he has bewilderment written all over him.

"How the fuck do you plan on affording to pay for a ride?" _Hmmm, not as sheltered as I thought._ She's impressed he knew it was a cab. Impressed, but remembers her original idea.

"Who said we were going to just ride in it?" She's bordering on hysterical laughter.

She likes watching shock on other people's faces. Especially when she's the source of it. "What…" He's sputtering. "You…you can't just go and drive a bloody car! You need lessons and…and…a license."

"Yeah. That's what Dad said too. But I convinced him to teach me anyways."

She loves it when he looks like this. Wants to frame it. And keep it. And pull it out when she needs a good smile. Or chuckle.

She grabs his arm and pulls him. Half dragging him to the car. Desperately trying to remember her stealth training. The engine is still running. She thanks Merlin for all the stupid people that ignorantly roam the world. They're finally good for something.

"Tonks…seriously…we can't…I mean, come on…"

They're up against the car now. Squatting low on the driver's side.

"Charlie. You are a fucking dragon keeper. You deal with monsters that eat guys like you for snack. I'm sure, no, I'm positive, you can handle stealing a car."

She's always been very persuasive.

And the two find themselves buckled in. And with her hitting the gas far too hard.

.

They've been driving for a while. He wishes he could say he felt calmer.

Knowing Tonks, knowing her nature, her personality. Knowing all this, he should have known.

She is one crazy driver.

She slams on brakes. Careens around corners. Makes him feel all sorts of motion sickness. He's white knuckled and queasy. And wonders why Bucharest has to be so far away.

They pass their first car. It's been miles. And a half hour or so. Of silence. Just the landscape whipping by. The air blowing in through the semi-open window. He watches it muss her hair. Watches it flutter behind her. And her trying to keep it under control. She's failing miserable.

The silence is excruciating. Painful. Tense and nervous. Maybe even angry.

He needs to make it stop.

He wishes he knew what to say.

"So, uh…how's your dad been?" She can feel the slight awkwardness lingering behind the question. He can tell. Her shoulders tense slightly. Her hands clutch the wheel a little harder. She clears her throat, distracted for a moment by oncoming traffic.

Two more cars go passing by. Red and blue.

"He's — he's good. Really good." She turns a corner, slowing around the bend. The silence is uncomfortable. "He still asks about you, you know. 'How's that old chap Charlie doin'?'" She pictures him, her dad, Ted Tonks, lounging in his big red chair. Reading the Muggle papers. He liked to, as he called it, "stay on top of things." The silence returns.

"And what do you say?" "I tell him you're good. That you're still in Romania. Taming dragons. Playing the part of the regular hero. And he laughs." She chuckles a little. "Then he'll say "Dragons. Boy better be careful! Don't want to lose an arm.' And then he'll pause, cock his head to the side and add, 'or anything worse.'" She'd adopted his voice. A master of disguise, even without her Metamorphugus abilities.

Charlie laughs a little. She continues. "I'd ask you how your mum and dad are, but considering I see them more than you do, it'd probably be more appropriate if you asked me." She has an impish grin spread across her lips. She looks a child, playing games with the next-door neighbor.

Charlie laughs harder. "Alright. So how are Mum and Dad?"

"Oh, they're good. Your mum's nerves are just about fried, what with the Order business and all. She doesn't fancy me much. Sees me as a royal klutz." She laughs a little. Slightly self-consciously. "Your dad's pretty good. Tired a lot. The Ministry's got him bending over backwards. The Dementors and the Death Eaters. Always looking like he's about to fall asleep in Molly's shepherd's pie. Damn good stuff. Your mum's shepherd's pie."

He remembers this is how it used to be. She'd ramble incessantly. And he'd smile. Nod. Listen to what she had to say. "How's everyone else?"

"Fine. Bill's still mooning over that French girl. Fleur…something or other. Only met her once. She didn't quite take to me." She shrugs, taking her hands of the wheel. He fears for his life for a second. "But Bill writes her letters by the parchment rolls. Hopelessly devoted, that one. And Percy's still not on speaking terms with…you guys." He notices how she speeds through that part. "And Fred and George are down in Diagon Alley with their joke shop. Apparently doing really well. Talking about working for the Order though. Makes Molly really antsy." She turns a corner, roughly, sending Charlie into the window. "And Ron. He's been with Hermione mostly. She's been around most of the summer. Not sure what they get up to. And Ginny's been fun. She misses you a lot." Tonks immediately regretted that last statement. Made it sound like she talked about him with her. "I mean…not that we sit around… talking about you or anything. She…just misses you."

There's a lull in the conversation. A giant vacuum, sucking them in. Leaving them in an empty silence that is neither comfortable nor desired. Driving both of them mad as the seconds tick on, adding up into minutes.

"Right. So, how's the rest of the Order?" He's figured that a Question and Answer round is the way to go. His safest bet.

She remembers then that he has never been to Grimmauld Place before. He's never been to Headquarters, never met the members of the Order.

"Well, there's Dumbledore, of course. He rarely shows up. Always off being all Headmaster-y or…doing whatever else it is he does. And there's McGonagall, who I must say, hasn't changed a bit since we left Hogwarts. Looks exactly the same too. Quite bizarre. And then there's Moody, who's convinced we're all either going to die today, tomorrow, next week, in an hour, or were supposed to die yesterday. Oh, and Dung. Your mum hates Dung even more than she dislikes me." She catches the confusion on his face. "Mundungus Fletcher. Real shady fellow. Likable, but shady. And a bit smelly. Nicks everything he sells. There's Kingsley, Kinglsey Shacklebolt, sounds like he belongs in one of those Muggle films. Looks like it too. Good man though. I work in his department at the Ministry. Too serious though. Doesn't smile nearly enough if you ask me. And there's Snape…who's just Snape. Remus is still around. Remus Lupin. Werewolf, you know. Poor guy. Him and Sirius were such close friends. Brothers, really. He's taking it really hard. Pretty poorly now that he's..."

She falls silent. He forgot that she lost someone too. Sirius. Her cousin. He never seems to remember that they're related.

"I'm sorry. About Sirius." This is his idea of comfort. But it's enough for her.

She smiles. "Thanks. Now where was I...?"

.

"So…this is it…" They're in the city. Tall buildings. Old buildings. Russian. French. A hodge-podge of architecture surrounding them.

"Bucharest." He remembers the area. From the days when he first arrived here. That was a long time ago. He hasn't been back since.

"Yeah." As if that answers everything for her. "Right. Should we find a place to stay?"

He nods. _Probably the best plan of action._ But he can't imagine staying in the same room with her. It's making him nervous.

She slows a little. Driving, turning the wheel in slow motion. Somehow finding their way to the dodgy end of the city. Figures…

They're driving in silence. And not a comfortable one at that. They're tired and bloody and in general a mess.

He sees blinking lights ahead. _Must be that eckleckicity Dad's always talking about…_

He sees the words "Vacancy" illuminated against the night. It's a motel. And it's open.

"Should we…stop here?" He's asking her. Begging that she says yes. All he wants to do is sleep.

"Um…yeah. Sure." She looks just as uncomfortable as he does.

She pulls off to the side of the road. Puts the car in park. And they sit there. Sit there. She, staring straight ahead. He, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

"Open the glove compartment." Her voice shatters his tiny realm of concentration he was holding on to. _Glove compartment…what the fuck? When did she get so smart…_

"The door, right there. By your knees. Open it." He can hear the impatience. Misses the usual jovial lilt to her words.

He's always been obedient. He opens the hatch. And stares. At the Muggle bills laying there amid a pack of cigarettes and what appears to be the car manual.

"Excellent," she mutters. Reaching over. And snatching the money up. Her hand accidentally brushing against his knee.

He shivers. Without meaning to.

She opens the door. The car flooding with the artificial light. Too bright against the darkened evening. He has to squint for a moment.

He steps out. And begins walking. A couple paces behind her.

They reach the place. The letters aligned vertically, spelling out "Braserie," flickering every few seconds.

They're staying at a motel whose name could double as a woman's undergarment.

He refuses to look at her. He knows he'll laugh.

_Oh, Merlin. Grow the fuck up._

He opens the door. And the last few letters black out, leaving the first three letters glowing.

He can hear her snickering as they step inside.

.

The place reeks. Of stale alcohol. Cat piss. And sex.

Low hanging ceilings and peeling wallpaper. She feels dirty just standing there. In the hallway that leads to a front desk. Crooked sign saying "Reception" hanging off the edge.

She's uncomfortable already. And her arm's beginning to throb. Tentatively, she pokes around. Big mistake.

"Ow…" Hissing in the lobby. If you can even call the dank room that. Peeling wallpaper and only a third of the lights seem to work.

He glances at her. She wants him to turn away. He of all people should never see her in pain. It's just not right. No. Not at all.

"What's wrong?" She's imagining the concern in his eyes. She has to be. He doesn't care about me. _No. No no no no no. Not now. Not ever. No. I'm just extra baggage for him right now. Baggage he'd rather check than claim._

But her arm is aching and she should really do something about it. Now, rather than later. He's still gazing at her. A funny look on his face. A cross between curiosity, annoyance and exhaustion.

"Nothing…I — I'm fine."

He doesn't believe her. She can tell. But he lets it go at that. And starts walking over. To the sad woman behind the desk.

Charlie smiles. One of those pseudo-polite, obviously forced half smiles.

She just stares. Stares back at the couple before her. Tonks knows exactly what she's thinking.

He clears his throat. A rough, gruff sounds. That makes her feel more than it should. "Yeah, hi. We'd like a room for the night."

"Two rooms!" She doesn't know why she said it. It was an impulse. But she knows. Knows what staying in a room alone with him entails.

He has an angry smile. Looking down at her. She hates that she feels so tiny next to him. Height and otherwise. Snapping his head back. To the irritated receptionist. "How much are your, uh, rooms here?"

She names her price. And Tonks wants to shriek in outrage. _This isn't the bloody Ritz…_

She fingers the bills in her hand. She can count. Quite well, actually. "One room will be fine."

She's met with a condescending smile. Courtesy of their helpful hotel employee. She reaches a key off the wall behind her. "Room Eighteen."

Tonks reaches for it. Using the wrong arm. She feels dizzy. Dizzy from the shrieking, screaming, angry pain shooting through her. She has to do something about it. _You're supposed to use alcohol…alcohol sterilizes it? Was that it?_

She has the key in her fingers, but they're shaking and she's having a difficult time holding onto the metal. She can feel his eyes. She knows that he can see she's not well.

"Where can I find the nearest liquor store?"

.

Room Eighteen. _What a piece of shit._

The "lobby" was apparently a clear indication as to what they should expect from the rest of the building. The door squeaked on its hinges. The carpet was stained and fraying at the edges. Some windows were boarded up. Some wood appeared to be rotting.

They had traveled the three blocks and purchased a bottle of vodka. For her arm.

She wouldn't let him see it. Wouldn't let him near her. Let him touch her, try to help her.

He turns to her. Smiling slightly at her look of revulsion. It pleases him for some reason.

"Do you want me to…your arm, do you want me to fix it?" He's helped out at the hospital wing at the camp before. He knows how to mend broken bones, clean out burns. Help those in pain.

She looks angry. "I can do it myself." _Stubborn wench…_

He gruffly shoves the bottle in her hand. The cold bottle. The bottle that made his fingers freeze the entire journey up the stairs. She frowns.

He watches her. Steps back. Sits in the armchair. Located across from the bed. The bed she lays the bottle of vodka on. His chair has lost some stuffing. He can feel the springs. Poking at him.

He watches her try and take off her robes. He forgot they had been wearing Wizard apparel. No wonder they received such strange glances. Well, that and the dry blood. She's struggling. Tangled up in the fabric. Trying not to move the injured arm. From here he can see the blood on her shirt.

She groans. Freezes. And takes a giant swig from the bottle. He can hear her swallowing. She inhales deeply. He realizes he did too.

And the battle continues. Her against her clothing. He's had enough. And moves over to help her.

Stands behind her. Pulls the robes gently off her shoulders. Notices how she tenses. How her breathing ceases for a second.

They don't speak. They don't speak as he rips her shirt. And pulls it off her. They don't speak when she's standing there. Clad in jeans and her bra. Black bra. So dark against such light skin. They don't speak as his fingers brush the wound, when he douses it with drink. Or when she recoils. Breathing heavily.

He still has his bag with him. And uses a shirt of his own. To wrap around her arm. Stop the bleeding. Make her all better again.

They don't speak. Or make eye contact. They've already said too much.

He throws another shirt at her. "You can wear this. I'm going to go wash up."

He closes the bathroom door behind him. Stares at the mold and mildew. And lets his heart rate return to normal.

It's her. And him. Her and him and they shouldn't be together. No. They shouldn't.

But they are...

He washes his face. Washes off the day and its grime and dirt that went with it.

Dries his face on the threadbare towel. And throws the door open.

She's sitting on the bed. Wearing his shirt. A button-down of his. It reaches past her thighs. She's sitting cross-legged. Knees in the air. Holding onto her feet. She's wearing only his shirt.

_I can't do this…_

Tiny legs, skinny legs. Tiny hands tracing patterns on her feet. She looks at him. Having noticed the shadow he cast across the bed.

He notices the vodka next to her. And how it's lost a considerable amount of its contents.

"I think I'll go to bed." He can't figure out why she reminds him of a child. Maybe it's the way she said those words. The simplicity of it all. The fact that he could sense fear behind it.

"Okay."

She looks at him. Waiting for a second. Then she stands. And he realizes his shirt is a lot shorter on her than he thought and he's having a hard time thinking clean thoughts and he just needs some sleep.

He rubs his eyes. Watching her pull down the sheets and gingerly climb in.

She's left a spot for him. Next to her.

"Ummm, I was, uh, thinking that I'd…just sleep on the floor."

She looks at him. Incredulously.

"You can't sleep on the floor!" She looks ridiculous. Sitting half-way up in bed, hair already a mess, arm cradled around her body, heavy bandage protruding above the shirt.

"And why not?" He doesn't understand her. He never has. Especially now.

"Because." As though that's enough of the answer. "I mean, look at it. It's filthy. With my luck, you'll sleep down there and in the morning be ravaged by some incurable and utterly contagious disease. And I'll have to go find a gas mask and sit there, next to you, while you roll around, covered in boils, moaning in pain and hacking up a lung. And I'll feel too bad to say "I told you so" and then you'll die or go all comatose and I'll be forced to wander alone, all by my lonesome, through treacherous Romania. Things are shitty enough as it is. I don't need you to be a walking health-code violation."

This is the Tonks he knew. The Tonks he had loved. The girl who rambled when nervous and always jumped to the extreme. And never realized how ridiculous she was being.

But he wonders if it's her talking. Or just the vodka.

He decides its some combination of the two.

And he's too tired to argue with her. The drunken pixie. Inviting him into her bed.

"Fine. You win." He walks over to the bed. Feeling slightly nervous. Apprehensive.

"Good." She points at him, mock anger on her face. "But you better not hog the covers, Weasley. I will kick you out and leave your sad arse on that infected carpet."

"Deal," he murmurs, sliding under the covers. Being careful not to bump her leg with his. Avoiding any sort of physical contact.

" 'Night." He feels too close to her. Like he's about to explode, multiply, melt. And be all around her. Inside her. Among her.

" 'Night…" he trails off.

Praying he falls asleep before she does.

.


	5. Chapter Five: Traveling Beauty

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling I am not.

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Five: Traveling Beauty**

"To me the most important thing is the sense of going on. You know how beautiful things are when you're traveling." - Edward Hopper

.

.

.

She's cold. She always wakes up cold. But today seems chillier than usual. She's missing half the covers. Her left leg is hanging off the bed. Toes almost skimming the ground. She can feel the goosebumps rising on her thighs.

Her head hurts. Aches. Feels like its full of sand.

She can't seem to open her eyes. They seem to be glued shut. Her arm is stinging. Painfully so.

She's so cold. Almost shivering. She hitches her leg up, back in bed.

She can hear breathing next to her. Feel the heat emanating off the body next to her. The heat. Warmth. She needs some of it.

She rolls to her side. Arms flailing in the air. They land on the chest of the man next to her. She lets her hands slide up and down him. Taking in his warmth. Trying to get warm. He feels good. Desperately good.

Too good.

She slides her body further. Closer. Itching to get near him. The man. Her head feels funny. And she's not thinking straight.

Her leg crosses over him. She can feel the hair, his bare legs. Hers pressed to his. She's halfway laying on him now. Her head buried in his shoulder. _He smells good..._

She feels him shift. Grumble. Arch his body up. His hand sliding down her back. She sighs into him. Goosebumps fading. Breathing evening out. Head clearing slightly.

She clears her throat. And hears him groan. Right in her ear. It doesn't matter who he is. Doesn't matter at all. He just feels so warm and welcoming. Safe. Everything will be okay.

She can feel the stubble of his cheek brushing against her own. She can't ignore the thrill that courses through her.

Her eyes flicker slowly. Eyelashes fluttering. Eyes trying to open and see. But the room is grey. And dark. The windows aren't on the right side and her walls were never wallpapered. She realizes she's not in her room. Not at all. This isn't her flat. She doesn't know where the fuck she is.

Or who she's lying next to.

She's awake now. Awake and a little frightened. Confused. And distinctly hungover.

"What..." she croaks out. Her voice not working the way it used to.

She looks up. Up and sees freckles. Freckle covered skin. Red hair. Strong shoulders. Broad chest. And she feels her stomach drop.

_Oh, fuck..._

And he's waking up. She watches him yawn. Feels the arm on her back drop lower. Fingertips pressing into her skin.

It's funny having the past catch up with you. She suddenly remembers everything. The train ride. Arriving at the camp. The attack. Running. The fact that they are basically equivalent to Muggles. Stealing a cab. The sad excuse for a motel.

_Oh, Merlin._

She feels him stirring. And watches him open his eyes. And wonders why she hasn't moved yet. And knows that he'll ask the same.

"Um, hi."

The awkwardness behind his words makes her cringe. She can tell that he's uncomfortable. That he hadn't expected to wake up with her in his arms. But he hasn't moved his arm off her back. It's still there. Unmoving. Transferring heat from him to her.

"Hi." The single syllable speaking volumes. "I- I must have rolled over. At some point in the night." She sounds like a frog. A toad. A dying amphibian. "I move a lot. When I'm sleeping. I can't ever seem to stay in one place. I mean, I've fallen out of bed so many times that I must as well just start out there. Be a lot easier. And I wouldn't wake up nearly as bruised."

She falls silent. Realizing she hasn't done a single klutzy thing in the last twenty-four hours. Wonders what that means. And why she has to talk so much.

He's just looking at her. A strange expression across his face. She's not sure what to say.

His hand is still on her back. He's going to drive her mad.

"I think I'll go shower."

.

He just lies there. Feeling the chill fall all around him as she gets out of bed. Watches her untangle herself. Her legs from his. Herself from the old sheets. He watches as she walks to the bathroom. The shirt barely covering her knickers. Her hair sticking out at strange angles. He watches as she self-consciously pats at it. Unable to smooth it out. He can't seem to stop watching her. The thin pale legs carrying her to the door. Her slightly swaying hips. Sensuous. Without even trying. Maybe that's why he's so attracted.

That. And because he can't have her.

The door shuts. With a thump. He can hear her padding around. On the mildew coated tile. Wonders if she's as revolted as he was. Is almost positive that she is. If she notices.

He can hear the shower start. The steady stream of water hitting the porcelain tub. And he's seeing things inside his head. Soap. And suds. And a body that he's craving. No matter how hard he's trying to squelch it. The strange desire. Lying dormant for so long. In the pit of his stomach. He can feel it stirring. And wonders if there's anyway for this to end well.

He stays in bed. Hand laid out where she once was. And curses himself silently. For being such a fool.

The water's still running and he's still painting pictures. Portraits in his head. Scenes he's never going to enact.

He hears a thump. A loud thump. The sound of something hitting the floor. Someone hitting the floor. He can hear a thump. A thump and a strange yell. A strangled cry.

He's out of bed. And across the grungy carpet. Throwing the door open. Ignoring its squeaks of protest.

And he immediately forgets why he ran into the room.

There she is. Tiny and wet. Naked. Sprawled out on the floor of the shower. Water dripping down her. Legs crossed at a funny angle. Her trying to cradle her arm. The injured arm. He had forgotten that she had hurt herself. She's grumbling to herself. And he can't seem to take his eyes off her. The mirror fogging up behind him. The water continuing to fall.

Her eyes meet his. And he realizes that he's standing here. And she's lying there. And she's not wearing clothes and this has to be the most embarrassing thing ever for her.

"Ummm, are you...alright?" _Oh, you fuck. Stupid git. Moron._

She glares at him. "No." Her voice cold. Freezing the steaming room. "I'm naked." Stating the obvious. He realized that the second he walked in.

"I've seen it all before." He immediately regrets saying that. The look that crosses her face. The way her eyes seem to cast over. At the anger in his tone. He's a Weasley. Rage runs in their family. That and the inability to say the right thing.

"Yeah. Like a decade ago." He always loved her temper. Loved how easy it was to set her off. Their two tempers. And how they were so easy to ignite. And impossible to put out.

They're both staring. At each other. "What happened...?" His voice trailing off.

"My arm hurts. I — I tried to wash my hair...and I shouldn't have...lifted my arm, I guess...and I...well. You see."

He's shocked. Shocked that she hasn't screamed at him to get out. Shocked that she's lying there. Naked. And letting him continue to look at her.

"Oh." He's not sure what you say. What you say to the girl who broke your heart seven years ago and became a woman and is now lying in front of you and you can see _everything_ and she seems completely unaware of it all as she just lays there. Immobile. Frozen.

He can hear his name. And his head snaps back up. "Charlie? Can you maybe...uh...help me? Here...please?" He's blushing. He knows he is. Wonders how red his face is.

"Oh, yeah. Sure." He feels like the bumbling idiot. That guy that people laugh at. And sympathize with.

He grabs a towel off the rack. Realizes in the back of the mind that it's the same one he used last night. But there aren't anymore. In this bathroom at least.

He walks over. To her crumbled form in the corner of the tub. And he realizes that she is indeed blushing. Furiously so.

_Of all the bloody situations imaginable..._

"Um, right." He's rambling. Talking to fill the silence.

He wraps his hand around her good arm. Hoisting her up. Into standing position. _Don't look down. Do not look down. Maintain eye contact. Do not look down._

It's harder than he thought it would be.

He puts his arm around her. Wrapping her in the towel. Her grunting when he bumps her sore arm.

"Sorry..." Muttering apologies without thinking about their meaning.

He looks at her. Her sad, solemn eyes. She refuses to look at him. He understands.

"Is there..." He starts again. "Is there anything...I can do? For you?"

She looks at him now. Curiously. But she's looking at his forehead. Not at his eyes. She's staring at his forehead.

"Think you could wash my hair for me?"

He will never understand this girl.

.

He's made her a makeshift sling. And she wonders how the hell she'll be able to drive. Her arm really hurts. Really, really hurts.

And she's convinced that she's still blushing. She can't believe that he saw her. Like that.

_We're not going to think about that right now._

She's wearing her jeans now. And still wearing his shirt. For some reason that makes her feel strange. Wearing his clothes. Having him on her. _No. It's not like that._

She's sitting on the edge of the bed. Idly playing with the edge of the bedspread. Waiting for Charlie to get out of the bathroom. Waiting to face him again.

Patience is a virtue she has never learned how to possess.

She wants to get out of here. She wants to leave Romania. And everything that's happened here.

She stands up. Staggers over to the mirror. The old-fashioned mirror. One of those full-length ones. That you can turn and slant and try and obtain that ideal angle.

She stares at herself for a minute. The dark hair. The dark hair that today she can do nothing about. It just seems to hang there. Kind of curling. Hanging in her face. She had never realized how truly pale she was. Until now. Now looking at the stark relief between her dark hair and light skin.

Her eyes make her seem innocent. Too innocent. And she knows she's not. The big eyes. Seemingly hopeful and naÃ¯ve. She's been there before. But once you leave it you can't go back. No matter how hard you might desperately try.

She never realized she had such striking cheekbones. The way they jut up and out. Making her look more docile than she actually is.

She has thin lips. Lips that no woman would envy. Thin. The kind of lips a librarian would have. Pursed in disapproval. Looking stern and bitter. Resentful. She's neither of these things.

Her whole appearance makes her a paradox.

She can't remember the last time she looked at herself this way. Stood in front of a mirror. As herself. The woman who couldn't change her hair from orange to pink to electric blue. The woman with the Black features. She realizes how much she looks like her mother in that moment. How similar the two are. In appearance. And bizarre first name. Andromeda. Nymphadora. Two crazy women with names to match. Sometimes things can make sense.

She's scanning her profile. Scrunching her own nose up. And down. Watching the lines appear on her face. Watching the way her lips almost protrude. Arching an eyebrow. And letting it fall. Analyzing herself. Naming and cataloging each and every feature. That is distinctly her own.

She hears the door open. And turns around. Watching the man walk out of the bathroom. Running his fingers through his hair. Adjusting his jeans. That seem to hang a little too low. For her taste.

She wonders why she had to be so stupid. Why things turn out the way they do.

She looks at him. And feels sad. Sad for the man standing in front of her. The man with hair that is still wet. The man coated in a layer of freckles. Freckles she wants to touch and count and call her own. _Freckles have to be the most underrated trait in a man._

He has a funny grin on his face. A half grin. A curious little smile that doesn't quite make it to his eyes.

"Ready to go?"

She merely nods. Not sure what else to do.

.

They're walking down the stairs. Her in front of him. He with his bag slung over his shoulder. He could use a whole other day's worth of sleep. But they apparently have no time for that.

The stairs are creaking. Groaning under their weight. Creaking and sighing. Another day gone by. And somehow they're still standing.

He wonders what they do next.

They've gone down three flights of stairs. Three flights of dirt and grime and age and dust. He feels the urge to sneeze. And curses the housekeeping staff.

They've reached the lobby. The old bat behind the front desk is still there. Blending into the wall behind her. Plain clothes. Plain face. Plain woman. But today she has company.

Two men. Both in uniform. _What did Dad call them? Please-men?_

Out of the corner of his eye he notices that Tonks looks fairly alarmed. He's unsettled. The woman hasn't shown any true emotion since they left. Until now. The fear. It's contagious. He can feel it creeping in. Seeping under his skin.

He's afraid of a pair of Muggles.

He can only imagine what his brothers would say.

"Stay calm. Just act...normal." Her mouth is barely moving. But he can still hear the words leaking out. Like a deflating balloon. Full of air and breath.

She starts to walk. Towards the men. The men with the uniforms. The men with weapons. Guns. He's read about them before. Most boys have. Must be the testosterone. That leads to the fascination with firearms.

He's walking next to her. Clutching his bag. He hates the nerves that are dancing in the pit of his stomach. The crazy little jig that is making his head spin.

He swallows.

They're there. In the lobby. She walking to the front desk. Calmly. As though there's not a thing wrong with the world. With the day. With them. Hands the woman the key. The old skeletal looking piece of metal. That opened the gateway to hell. The woman merely nods. And Tonks goes to step away.

"You, there. Miss." They're talking to her. He wonders what they want. He wonders if they know. Know that it was them that killed people and stole a car. And money. He wonders if they can just look at someone and see everything bad that person may have done.

"Yes." Her composure is shocking. Calming. Surprising. She's usually the crazed one. The neurotic one. The one flying off the handle and saying, doing something stupid. The one who fucks it all up for them.

This game of role reversal is completely unnerving.

"Whaddya know 'bout that car out front?" He has a pen and a pad in hand. Using the uncapped pen to point out the dirty window. Half obscured by ratty lace curtains. He's sure they were white once. But time never keeps anything clean.

He's pointing at the cab. Their cab. The cab she drove here.

"That car? Nothing. We walked here." She looks defiant. Almost. Almost looking as though she's begging this tubby man to challenge what she's saying. One hip cocked out front. Arms crossed in front of her. Injured shoulder obscured by his clothes.

When did she become such a good actress?

But he knows that she's always been good at pretending. Pretending to be anyone but herself. Pretending she was capable of things that were beyond her reach. Pretending she loved him.

Sometimes the sting just never goes away.

The other man is approaching him. "You with her?"

He merely nods. Not trusting his voice. Afraid he'll open it. And words will just come rushing out and he'll tell them about the camp and the Death Eaters and the dementors and that he killed a guy, stuck a knife in his back, and the running through the woods and stealing the car because they had to and how this hotel is disgusting, but they stayed here anyway and they slept together last night, but there was no sex, but he saw her naked anyway and he just really, really, really wants to get the fuck out of here.

He's got a lot on his mind.

"What's your business?" _My business?_

"Just trying to get back home. London. We're taking the train today."

He doesn't know how he managed to spit out a logical response. He's too busy thinking about the fact that they no longer have a source of transportation. That in all likelihood these please-men won't believe them and take them off to jail.

He wonders if Muggle jails are anything like Azkaban...

"Are they who you're looking for?" He forgot how high-pitched that receptionist's voice was. He hates the fact that there's a sense of thrill and exhilaration behind it. She's smiling. And it is completely unsettling. "They the...murderers?"

It feels like someone just dropped ice down the back of his shirt. A cold chunk of it. He wonders if he's shivering. Or just imagining it.

How the bloody hell could they possibly know?

"No, ma'am. They're not it." He's still eyeing them strangely. But then again, they do make an odd pair. The tiny, doll-like girl. And the masculine, tall man.

"Murderers?" He can tell Tonks's curiosity is piqued. He thinks they should have found the back exit.

One of the men nods. The smaller of the two. "Yes. Damned strange. Found a field and it was just full...of bodies. A bloody massacre." He shakes his head. Pulls out a handkerchief. And dramatically blots his forehead with it. "And then a cab went missing some miles down the road. We're trying to see if the two events were connected at all."

Tonks looks pale. He's sure he looks the same. "A field..." She whispers it. And the man nods. But Charlie knows the question wasn't meant for him.

He doesn't understand at all. He thought the area was magically protected. That no Muggle could infiltrate the area.

He realizes that the Death Eaters must have broken the barrier. Let the world see the casualties. The casualties from a battle they don't even know exist.

Tonks seems to be in just as deep of thought. Lost in a reverie. In images and ideas that only she can see.

He's not sure why. He's not sure why but he hates her right now. Hates the tiny girl with the tiny nose and tiny hands and huge eyes in his huge shirt. Angry at her attempt at innocence. Angry at her attempt to put the past behind them.

The past always ends up just being the present.

But he knows what he hates about her the most. He knows what it is that's pissing him off more than anything.

Despite seven shitty years he still wants to fuck her senseless. Fuck her and love her and call her his own.

Knowing that can't happen makes him see red.

"We...have better be off." He's heading towards her. Loosely holding her arm in his hand. Steering her to the exit. "Uh...best of luck. With the investigation."

He attempts a smile and pushes the door open. And is met by a blast of cooler air.

He doesn't know what to do now.

.

She never understood how things always seem to manage to go from bad to worse. And now is no exception. She wonders how close they are to hitting rock bottom.

They have no car. No money. She's injured. He's inept in the Muggle world. And for all they know, they may very well be lost.

She always wanted to travel the world. But not like this.

They've been walking for a half-hour now. They took a right out of the building. And they just kept going. Walking on cracked pavement. Avoiding wads of old gum. Shards of broken bottles.

She thinks they've left the city. They seem to be in some strange suburban area. With sad streetlamps that will attempt to glow at night. And buildings that leave their windows closed at night.

They haven't said a word. Not one. Not a glance between each other. She wonders if he's angry. Angry with the state of things. Angry that they're seemingly lost. Angry at her. She wouldn't be surprised. He's been angry with her for the last seven years. No sense in breaking the trend now.

"Charlie...?" Her voice sounds so soft. So quiet. He doesn't answer. And she wonders if she got lost in the cool wind.

"Charlie?" She hates that she's so apprehensive around him. So careful. Walking on tiptoe. Afraid to make a sound. Afraid to disrupt the delicate balance they have yet to obtain.

She's staring at him. At his ear. The side of his face. And he turns. Just barely. Enough so that she can see one eye.

She hates that she has to look up to him.

She's still looking at him. Forgetting her thoughts and questions. And promptly trips on a crack in the sidewalk. Arm flailing forwards, the other still delicately tucked against her. Staggering movement, pitching towards the ground.

She doesn't fall. But he doesn't move to catch her.

"Um..." Trying to swallow both embarrassment and pride at the same time. She's learning that's no easy task. "Charlie?"

He looks at her full on this time. And she can see a feral anger beating behind his eyes. Attractive and terrifying at the same time.

"What?" She wants to smooth out the corners of his sharp, clipped tone. Smooth it out and make it better. Kiss away the wounds seven years have proven too short to mend.

"Where are we?" She wonders if she sounds as pathetic as she does in her head. Sad, lame echoes are dancing in the corridors of her head.

He gives a dry chuckle. A humorless sound. "I haven't a fucking clue."

"Right," she whispers. "Right..."

He's still looking at her. She prays that he doesn't expect her to have the blueprints for what they do next. She's drawing a blank. And that's not going to help them.

He's still looking. And she's shrinking under his gaze. Soon she'll be just an insect on the sidewalk. And she assumes it's a guarantee that he'll step on her.

"I could always steal another car for us?" Her tone was supposed to be light. But instead sounds heavy. A desperate attempt at humor.

He smiles, nonetheless. The closest thing to a real smile she's seen from him in awhile.

She always liked it when he'd smile. She liked it even more when it was her that made him do it.

"And have those please-men come after us again? I don't think so..." She's laughing. Harder than his sarcasm deserves. Laughing at his ignorance. Laughing at him. _Please-men?_

Her laughing subsides. And of course she has to be herself. And ask the least appropriate question imaginable.

"Charlie, why do you hate me?"

It's amazing how quickly the mood between two people can change.

"I don't." The words are soft. And all he says. 'I don't.'

She wonders what this means.

.


	6. Chapter Six: Ball and Chain

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling I am not.

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

_Chapter Six: Ball and Chain_

“You've got your ball   
You've got your chain   
Tied to me tight - tie me up again   
Who's got their claws   
In you my friend   
Into your heart   
I'll beat again...”�

_\- “Crash Into Me”� — Dave Matthews Band_

.

.

.

The diner they’re sitting in smells funny. Charlie wonders why they’re eating here.

He has a cup of coffee sitting in front of him. A sad cup. A tepid cup of coffee that tastes like it has been sitting out for days. He drinks it anyway. Grimacing as it worms its way down his throat and splashes in his empty stomach.

He feels like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

He doesn’t know where the fuck they are. And she knows this. He can tell. It’s in her quiet acceptance. And the fact she hasn’t asked where they are in the last few hours. She knows. And he wonders why she hasn’t thrown it in his face. That’s the sort of thing he remembers her doing.

She looks tired. Paler than usual. Paler than she's ever been. Sad arm tucked against her chest. She’s staring. Staring at the corner of the table. Eyes glazed over. Wide. Wider than usual. He can almost feel the fear glistening off her like tiny beads of sweat. She looks so mournful. So scared. So utterly alone.

He’s not quite sure why he feels so guilty. But he does.

Until he remembers that it’s her fault that things are this way between them. If that’s what she’s even thinking about.

He watches her shake her head slightly. Blink a couple of times. Raise her head. Swallow. And look at him.

“How’s the coffee?”� Cracking voice. Tired tone. _This is what we’ve become..._

“Tastes like shit.”� And he takes a giant swig. Not sure what it is he’s trying to prove as the lukewarm poison slides down his throat. He kind of hopes it kills him.

She looks out the window. They’re on some street. Some random street. There’s a toy store across the way. A little girl standing outside it. Holding her mother’s hand. Pointing eagerly at whatever shiny thing is glinting in the window. He always forgets that she doesn’t have a mother anymore. He always forgets that he doesn’t know the woman sitting in front of him.

And he doesn’t. She hasn’t cracked a joke in hours. Relayed an entirely unfunny anecdote that only seems to amuse her. Ended up on her arse on the pavement. Looking up at him, laughing in earnest. Thrown her arm around his shoulder, convincing him that everything will be okay. Regardless as to how shitty it’s all become right now.

No. She’s not doing any of that. She’s just sitting. Frowning instead of smiling. Worrying instead of laughing.

He wonders when she became so docile. And he's jealous. Jealous of whatever, whoever, it was. That was able to tame her.

He’s not sure what’s on her mind. But knows it’s not his place to ask.

.

She’s not sure how long they’ve been here. In this shit-hole of a diner.

She’s tired and in pain. She’s lost and he’s lost and she knows that eventually they’re going to have to meet in the center. And that worries her. Scares her.

They didn’t order any food. Just coffee for him. And tea for her. They can’t even agree on which beverage they prefer.

She can’t seem to keep her eyes on him. He makes her mind drift and twist and flip. And suddenly her head is just a kaleidoscope of emotion. No one color coming into focus.

She’s afraid for him.

She hasn’t forgotten the train-ride here. Hasn’t forgotten the now dead woman she shared a compartment with. Hasn’t forgotten her words. They’ve been swimming and weaving through her brain since then. Reaching ear-splitting volumes at times. Watching him kill a Death Eater. Having him touch her. Lie next to her. She hears it. Words. That supposedly spell out their future.

She’s been trying to talk herself out of believing ever since she stepped onto that platform.

_Men like him don’t die because of women like me._

She knows that’s a lie. But it satisfies her. For now.

She twists in her seat a little. Wincing at the pain. Fucking arm.

She knows he’s been watching her the entire time. But she’ll let him think she’s oblivious.

She’s staring at the ceiling. Identifying all the cracks. And praying that the roof won’t fall in upon their sorry heads. Her sorry head. Her extremely sorry head.

_That woman can’t possibly be right. He would never have me._

They’re both in love and at war with their former selves.

“Charlie.”�

She brings her eyes down from above, cocking her head to the right. He merely raises his eyebrows. Begging her to continue. Behind the safety of his cracked coffee mug.

“What do we go from here?”� She wonders how he’ll interpret that. _Where do we go from here...Home? Bucharest? Hell? Back into each other’s arms?_

“Umm, well. I guess we work our way back into...Bucharest. Find the train station. Ride to London. And we get to Headquarters.”� A light seems to go off inside. She hopes it’s a brilliant idea. “Hey. No one ever told me exactly where you guys meet. Where are we headed?”�

Of course. He doesn’t know where the fuck Headquarters is. That’s why she was sent in the first place.

She figures there’s no point in not telling him now.

“It’s...well...it’s...oh, fuck...”� She can feel her heart plummeting. Landing right next to that long lost hope that used to be such a great companion.

She can’t remember.

It’s like a slate wiped clean. Erased. Missing. Cut out and thrown away.

He’s looking at her. Staring her down. “What do you mean exactly by ‘oh, fuck?’”�

She has her head in her hands. Trying to remember. Anything. It must have been when they took her magic. _It has to be. They took it all away. Everything._

And she’s right. She can’t remember a single spell. A single creature. Location. Famous landmark, person. Law. Rule. Guideline. How to find Point A or get to Point B.

“Charlie. Charlie, name — name a spell or — or something. Right now.”� He’s looking at her. Like she’s gone mad over the length of time that they’ve been sitting here. Which has been a while and in all honesty a true possibility. “Just do it.”�

“Okay...there’s...it’s in like Latin...or something...”� His hands are in his hair again. She’s figured him all out. He with the nervous habits.

“They took it all.”� They just sit there. Eye to eye. Alone. Not quite Muggle. Not quite wizard.

She knows that look. That look he gets. That look that screams ‘I can’t accept that.’

“But...Someone has to know by now. Someone must know. There was a whole fucking field of bloody corpses. The Order has to know by now. And the dragons...what the fuck do you think happened to them? No. The Ministry...the Order... _Dumbledore_...someone will realize. That we’re missing and something is severely wrong. They’ll — they’ll find us.”�

“Unless they think we’re dead.”� Half full. Half empty. She knows who’s who in that silly game.

He just looks at her. She can see the logic. And the reality of the situation flooding his features. “I don’t even remember how to get to the bloody train. The fucking platform.”�

“What do we do?”� She doesn’t know why she’s whispering. She figures the situation warrants it.

He exhales. Heavily. “London. We go to London. And we figure it out from there.”�

It took two hours. Two hours to revert back to the plan they had started with.

She looks out the window. And realizes a single car hasn’t passed by.

.

He watches her lay the money out on the table. The crinkled folded bills. With numbers and faces decorating them. He realizes she only has a few left in her hand.

“We’ll have to find a bank soon,”� she muses. He nods. Knowing she was just thinking out loud and not really talking to him. He likes to pretend though.

She’s standing. And he rises as well. Leaving the napkin that was sitting on his lap crumpled and limp on the table. He can still taste the coffee on his tongue. It’s revolting.

“Ready?”� He doesn’t know why he asks. She was the first one up and at the door. Of course she’s ready. He just feels the need to ask.

She rewards him with the slightest of smiles, a brief head nod. And pushes open the door.

To rain.

_It figures..._

They had been sitting next to the window. The entire time. And he’s just now noticing it has begun to rain.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

The puddles splash around her feet as she climbs down the stairs. The metal railing glistening wet. Slippery against his palm. It’s raining. Water bouncing off his face. Dripping off his lips. Not a light rain. Not a hard rain. Just rain. The kind of rain they talk about when spring rolls around. Cold. Wet. Sticky.

She’s walking in front of him. Delicate. Dainty. He never realized how graceful the clumsy girl could be. Her head dipped low. Wet dark hair spread across her shoulders. They’re not walking together. Now. Or before. She’s ahead and he’s still struggling to catch up.

She’s not going to slow down for him.

He watches her turn around. Just her head. Wet hair arcing around her. Looking at him. To see where he is. How far back he is. How far off in the distance he’s let himself drift.

He looks at her. Walking forward. But looking back. He can see the water droplets falling from her eyelashes. She’s never let him see her cry. She’s not crying now. But the rain leaves tracks down her cheeks. Spiraling down to her lips. Her lips.

He remembers the way she used to kiss him. Remembers has he shuffles his way down the wet, cold stone street. The way she’d do that little head-butt thing. Letting her forehead collide with his own. Knocking his head back. Nipping his lips. Softly. Lightly. Teasing him. And drawing him out. All with that tiny smile pressed against his own. Looking at her now. Soaking wet and almost innocent, all he can think about are those kisses.

He hates what she can do to him. He hates that despite everything he still wants her.

He wonders if she knows.

He doesn’t know where they are. He gave up trying to figure that out hours ago. He doubts it’s safe to go back to the city. They know that the car was stolen. He’s surprised they got off so easily. Too easily. He can feel the pessimistic cloud taking over his mood. _Nothing good can come of this._

He hates that he knows that he’s right.

He’s almost caught up with her. Right behind her slapping footsteps.

He wonders where all the traffic is. He wonders what happened to the little girl and the mother at the toy store. He wonders why they’re suddenly so alone.

And they really are. They haven’t passed a soul while walking down the sidewalk. A single soul. The town they’ve stumbled upon hours ago has emptied out. A ghost town. Over the course of minutes.

His hand goes to his right pocket. Nothing’s there. Old habits die hard.

No town is ever this empty.

He can feel the dread coiling in his stomach. A tight spring. Preparing to snap. The second his fears become reality.

“Tonks,”� he ventures. Destroying the silence built between them. He laid the foundation. She’s just been filling in the walls. He’s still searching out the cracks.

She slows. Slightly. Turning her head enough for him to see one eye. Hidden by dark hair. One eye locked on him.

“Where the fuck is everyone?”� _Aren’t you quite the eloquent wanker?_

She stops walking. And turns to him. He shouldn’t notice that her shirt is wet. But he does. And he hates that he likes what he sees.

“I was just wondering that, too.”� The worry is too strong in her voice. Too heavy. Adding weight to his anxiety. “It doesn’t feel right, does it?”� He shakes his head. Looking around. Taking in his surroundings.

There’s no one.

“Let’s just...keep going. Get to the train station.”� She turns around. And begins to walk again.

He hates that he’s let himself become the follower. The one lagging behind. Waiting for directions. Begging to be commanded. But he’ll let her. He’ll let her drag him by a leash even if it chokes him. Makes him gag and shrink away. Because it’s what they do. Because it’s what they’ve always done. She the ringleader, and he jumping through hoops for her.

Things haven’t changed that much.

They’ve reached a corner. And she’s just standing there. Letting the water collect at her feet. Fill her shoes. And freeze her toes. Looking left and right. Forward and back.

“Do you remember which way we came?”� She’s not asking him for help. That’s a technique she never mastered. She’ll beat around the bush. Collect all the information she needs. Try and continue to fail. But never ask for help. At least not from him.

He hates this game.

“No...I don’t.”� Honesty is sometimes easier. And now is one of those times. Fuck the stereotype. Not all men are afraid to admit that they’re lost.

“Right...”� She’s mapping out a plan in her head. He can see the wheels spinning and the thoughts churning. “We’ll go left...I guess. Yes. Left.”�

She turns quickly and runs right into the stop sign. Hitting her head on its post. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to laugh. But he can feel the amusement and the mirth reaching a fever pitch inside him as she rubs her head and lets out a string of whispered curses that are almost enough to make him blush. Almost.

She won’t look at him. And it’s a good thing. For sure he’d laugh then.

He follows her, swallowing unshed laughter. Reminding himself to stay alert. Be aware of his surroundings. All that jazz he learned years ago in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’s beginning to wish he had paid more attention. And spent less time on dragons. And her. _You can’t change the past. You can’t change it._

_But I keep trying...don’t I?_

He runs into her. Not aware that she has stopped. They’ve entered an alley. Old laundry hanging above their heads, condemned to an ever soaked state. Trash cans are knocked over. Bottles, broken and whole, food, half-eaten and rotten, scattered across the stone.

There’s not a single rat. A single rat or alley cat. Any old creature who prowls the waste. There’s nothing.

He backs away a bit from her. “What? Why’d you stop?”�

“Look...”� He hates her choked tone. He hates her outstretched hand. Pointed finger. He hates that the dread is about to snap and take him down. Down into the awful reality that is their world.

Bodies. A couple of them. Still and motionless. Absorbing the rain water as it falls down around them. Lifeless on the cold stone street.

They’re dead. _They have to be._

Suddenly he remembers yesterday. And driving a knife through another man’s back. A knife. In his hand. Blood. That he drew. A life. That he ended.

Guilt is a scary, ugly thing.

He stares at the dead. Three of them. The look upon their faces all the same. Wide-eyed. Terror. Half-open mouths. Faces gone pale.

There’s not a mark on them. Not a single mark. No blood on the pavement. No scratches, bruises, wounds. No sign of struggle.

He knows why the streets are empty. And all he can think about is the girl with her mother at the toy store. And he wants to puke.

The spring has snapped.

He’s watching his worst fears pan out.

.

She’s too young to have seen so many bodies. But death has decided to be her friend. Her shadow. Her future.

Too many bodies. Enemies. Strangers. Friends. Men. Women. Children.

She doesn’t want to add lovers to the list. But she fears his days are numbered.

_They’re not. He’ll be fine and we’ll be fine and everyone will be just fine._

She doesn’t know the people lying before her. Staring up at her without seeing. But she does know what they mean. She does know and understand the gravity of the situation.

And wonders how they’ll make it out alive.

“We have to go.”� She doesn’t know how she got the words out. Her throat feels stuck. Closed up. Choking on fear. Disgust. Grief.

“Yeah...”� He’s just staring ahead. Lost. Adrift. She wants to shake him. He’s supposed to be the calm one. The one in control. But he looks just like her now. Scared. “Yeah...”� With that, he turns. And begins to walk.

She follows. Leaving the alley. Leaving the bodies.

She wonders if there’s anyone left to take them away.

They seem to have reached some town square. A fountain in the center. Shooting water up into the falling rain. Old stone crumbling. Old engraving smoothing out, the words illegible now.

He’s there next to her. Turning in a slow circle. She knows that they’re both just waiting. For the inevitable to strike them down. She can feel the hysteria bubbling up deep within her. _I can’t take this...I can’t. I can’t do this._

She feels half crazed with fear. And wants to run. But there’s no one left to help them. No one in this city. They’re all dead. _Dead dead dead dead dead._ And a part of her knows that it’s because of them.

There were no marks on the bodies. No marks. Just wide empty eyes. And stiff corpses.

They’re coming for them.

For the first time in hours, she meets his eyes. He’s on the other side of the fountain. Looking at her through the cascading water. She can see his eyes. And she can see that he understands too. She wants to go to him. But seems rooted to the spot.

They never seem to be able to stay on the same side.

Then she hears it. The tell-tale pop. The resounding crack. They’re here. Behind her.

She lets herself look one last time. Look at the man who was her world. Who might still be. Look at him. Through the spurting water and the drenching rain.

_He’s still mine._

She turns. Feeling nauseous. Uneasy.

And they’re there. Men in black robes that cover their faces. Hiding in the shadows. Wands protruding beneath voluminous sleeves. Cold, icy fingers. Clutching their weapons of destruction. She imagines that they’re smiling. Menacing smiles. Sadistic smiles.

She hasn’t done half the things she wanted to before she died. She’s not married. She has no children. She’s never been to Africa. Or Paris in the spring. She can’t speak Chinese. Or Goblin. She never found the meaning of life or the bloody Holy Grail.

He never forgave her.

They’re walking towards them. There’s still a distance between them. She wonders if she runs if they’ll kill her faster.

She’s wasting too much time. Thinking. Planning. Worrying. This is why they train. _What would Moody say?_

“Run!”� And she’s off. Sprinting back down alleys. Back they way they came. She can hear him at her heels. And is oddly comforted by this. The steady rhythm of his shoes beating hard behind her. She sees green hitting the walls around her. Buildings coming apart in chunks. Debris flying every which way.

She must have taken a wrong turn. She had to have taken a wrong turn. Because all that’s in front of her is a brick wall. An ugly brick wall standing tall and proud. Blocking the way to freedom.

She doesn’t stop running until she hits it. Out of breath, chest heaving, she turns. Back up against the wall. Slowly slouching down.

_They’re coming._

The bad guys always walk slowly. Dressed in black. And meandering their way in. In for the kill.

_Trapped trapped trapped trapped._

She can hear him breathing heavily beside her. She can’t look at him. No, she can’t. She’ll lose it then.

And they’re there. In front of her. In front of him. They’re there. As she desperately tries to tame her breathing.

“A Black and a Weasley. Must be our lucky day.”� Drawling tone. She knows who he must be. And hates the injustice of it all.

Neither of them say a word. They just stare. Into the face of death.

“Come with us.”�

Out of all the words she had anticipated, those had not been it. But then she remembers. Remembers the dragon camp. And the field. And the man saying that he wanted them. Whole and alive.

She’s afraid that she’s visibly shaking. But she keeps the defiant edge to her stare.

“No.”� Her voice an angry croak.

Dry laughter. That scratches at her heart. “That wasn’t a request.”� She swears she heard amusement in that.

There’s four of them. Four of them. And just the two of them.

She watches them come towards her. Towards him. She watches him reach a hand out to grab her, snatch her by the arm and carry her away. And she knows she can’t take him and there’s no way she’d win in a fight against him. But his head sways to the side with a disgusting crunch. Smacking his skull against the wall. Slumping toward the floor.

And there’s Charlie. With a look to him that she has never seen. She’s scared and there’s hope but she’s so afraid. And he’s fighting them. Three versus one. Punches and kicks and blood spreading its way across the pavement.

_“Crucio!”�_ A foreign word. She can’t remember its meaning. But Charlie...lying on the ground. Mouth open wide. Convulsing and shaking and so is she and she can’t look at him but can’t seem to take her eyes off him as he lies there. Helpless and twitching and in what appears to be the worst pain imaginable. There’s screaming and she doesn’t know if it’s coming from her or from him and it really doesn’t matter. But it’s Charlie and he’s not allowed to hurt.

The trash is still spread across the ground. She has to look away. At something. The old newspaper. The cardboard boxes. The broken bottles.

Broken bottles.

In this world there are weapons everywhere. You just have to know where to look for them.

She lunges. Realizing the man has lowered his wand. And Charlie is now panting and retching on the ground.

_No no no no no._

And they turn. To her. But she’s quick. And has the cool glass in her hand. Clutching it tightly. And on the man’s back in a second. She’s slit his throat and feels him drop. And there’s only two now.

She realizes she can’t quite recall what happened next. The events a tangled mess of blood and violence. And her as the killer.

_Self-defense. It was all self-defense. We would have died. We would have died..._

He’s still on the ground. Staring up at her. An unreadable expression across his pale face. Wet hair matted down and dripping in his face.

She has blood on her hands. Metaphorically and otherwise.

She feels sick.

She hears the bottle hit the ground. A loud _clink_. She feels herself swaying. Swaying in the steady rain. That’s turning their street an ugly shade of brown. Brown with mud and trash and blood.

He’s standing now. On unsteady feet next to her.

She’s watching her hands turn pink. Blood slipping down soft fingers.

She feels sick.

She feels a hand on her arm. And recoils. Not meaning to. But shrinks away nonetheless.

He’s moving forward. Away from her. Saying something that doesn’t seem to reach her ears. But she follows him anyway. Suddenly feeling the urge to run. Sprint. Race through empty streets. Begging another soul to show its face.

She can feel the water dripping off her chin. She knows that it’s not just the rain that’s sliding off her cheeks.

She’s passed him. Walking quickly. On some unstated mission. Nearly running now. She feels sick. So sick. And scared. And angry. Bitter. Sad. Lost. And not sure what a person does with that mangled heap of emotion.

Faster. Faster. She’s found another alley now. Stumbling on slick brick. But still going forward. Shuddering breaths and near sobs echoing off the tired walls.

She feels a pull on her arm. And yelps. Backs into the wall. For the second time that day. Her sore shoulder aching. She can see him. In front of her. Clutching her arm. Holding on. The anchor as she tries to drift off to sea.

He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at her. The shaking, barely breathing mess of a woman before him. Hair sticking to her washed-out complexion.

His hand is still on her arm. A death grip. She’s sure that he’s left a mark. She can feel his fingers digging into her skin.

His other hand is moving. Rising. Coming up. To her neck. Curling around, clutching the nape. She shivers.

And he’s there. Lips pressed to hers. Nothing tender about the action. A brusque attack. Lips roughly attached to hers. Teeth finding her bottom lip.

Shaky bloodstained hands gripping the front of his shirt. Begging him to stop. Pleading for him to continue.

She’s giving in. Arching against him. And licking his soft lips. So warm compared to her own. She’s so cold and he’s so warm and she has to let him in. He’s the fire that burns late at night. The flames she dreams of coming home to. After each horrific day. Curl up at the hearth. And let him overwhelm her.

His hand is gripping the back of her head. His fingers lost in wet hair. Like black rope. Binding him to her.

_Don’t let go. Don’t let go. Don’t let me go._

She’s up against the dirty wall. Fingers stained with blood. Cold and wet.

His hand has left her arm and is gripping her hip. Holding her still. While he continues his assault. Tongue tangoing. Stomach doing flips. They never used to be so violent.

And she’s given in. Reconciling herself. To the fact that maybe. Just maybe. Maybe...

He pulls away. Abruptly. Minus any warning. Or prelude.

He’s stepping away. Hands untangling. Panting. Mask put back in place. She wonders if he’ll let it slip again.

“Sorry.”� An apology she never asked for. But then again, he’s always been big on the whole apology thing. Making people beg for his forgiveness.

“We should really get going.”�

She wishes she could remember how to speak. But his kisses were always like this. Mind-blowing. Stripping her of all vestige of thought and reason. Why should now be any different?

And they begin to walk. A brisk tempo. Side by side.

She knows they’re not going to be able to escape each other this time.

.


	7. Chapter Seven: Appeasement

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: Guess how much money this sad college student has to her name? Did you say nothing? Well, then, you win! Unfortunately I have zero money to give to you as a prize...Yeah. In plain English, Harry Potter belongs to that rich lady and not me. That rich lady and her fellow conglomerates. So sue me not. I know not what I do

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Seven: Appeasement**

"You'll say you understand   
You'll never understand   
I'll say I'll never wake up   
Knowing how or why   
I don't know what   
To believe in   
You won't know who I am   
You'll say I need appeasing   
When I start to cry   
But never is a promise   
And I'll never need a lie"

_\- "Never Is a Promise" — Fiona Apple_

.

.

.

He doesn't know why he kissed her. He has no idea what demon possessed him. Made him launch at her like that.

But she had been there. Cold. Scared. Vulnerable. She had killed three men to save their lives. Save his life.

In his mind it just seemed right.

But now. Now walking next to her, the her that can't meet his eyes. Most likely wondering why he stopped. Why he pulled away as she gave into him. But he knew. Knew he couldn't take her, right there. In a deserted alleyway. The both of them covered in blood. Blood that's not their own. Knew he wouldn't be able to stop. If they kept going. Knew it all. As the past caught up to him and he remembered her and remembered their history, their story, and realized snogging in the alley wasn't right at all.

His legs feel funny and his skin's still tingling.

He's never felt pain like that before. He's never wanted anyone that badly before.

He hates that he can't seem to straighten out his thoughts. Can't seem to connect them, even by the smallest thread. They're all just odd snippets. Coming into focus and then quickly fading. The alley. The pain. Oh, Merlin...the pain. Her. Broken glass in hand. Blood coating her delicate fingers. The rain. The pain. And she was there. The kiss. The kisses. The feel of her in his arms. Once again. Soft and hard and scared and brave. Perfect.

He has to stop thinking about this. Stop thinking about her.

_You shouldn't have done it..._

But it's too late. And he knows it. Knows it as he can still feel his heart beating in his ears. Knows. Because he's had a taste. And she's in him now. Pushing him forward. And back towards her.

They're turning a corner. Slowly. The rain still pounding. His mind still swimming.

He shouldn't have done it. Now he craves her. Like the drug she is. Clouding his senses and throwing him off balance.

It's always been like this. Seven years of pain, regret and anger weren't enough to erase those memories.

He wonders why he's so afraid to give in. _Because bloody history is likely to repeat itself..._

He's fighting a battle. Mind against spirit. Logic against desire.

He wonders which side will come out victorious. He kind of already knows.

He steps over a puddle. Watches her walk right through it. Her pants already soaked, and the water sloshes up her calves.

A creature of passion. He's always been that. Lashing out when the situation didn't warrant it. Letting his temper explode, let the lava slide down the cold rocks. Jumped into bed with nary a worry. Yes. A creature of passion.

They've left the town. The sign, dusted with age. Dripping with water. Thanking them for visiting.

He knows they won't come back.

And he sees the sign for Bucharest. White letters against the black. Announcing they still have a ways to go. And they won't be there by sundown.

He looks to her, but she just keeps walking. Down the dusty road. Shoes squishing against the ground.

He wonders if old dogs can learn new tricks. For his sake, he hopes so.

.

_You killed them. You killed those men. You hurt them and you killed them and you made them bleed._

_I had to. I had to. I had to. There was no other choice. We would have died and then they would have been the killers and they were hurting him and they were going to take us...I had no choice._

_You killed them._

She knows she's slowly driving herself mad. And she can't think of a single bloody way to stop it.

Her hands are stained and her feet are cold and she let him kiss her and touch her and hold her and she let him end it. Just as quickly as it began.

She was confused to begin with. She really doesn't need him fucking with her head.

She can see him out of the corner of her eye. She can see his face. Slightly bruised on the side. A cut, arcing across his cheekbone. And she wants to take him and heal him and promise that everything is fine and that everything will get better.

They hurt him.

And in the process opened up something deep within her.

They say you never forget your first love. And she hasn't.

She never stopped loving her first love.

They hurt him. And she had to watch him bleed and ache and kill. Watch him die. Just a little bit.

And it was enough. More than enough. To cement it in her mind.

She loves him. She does. Loves him more than she knows what to do with it.

And she wants him. Wants him the way everything used to be. Before he became so disillusioned by love and before everything went to shit. She wants him. Wants him to love her and forgive her and tell her that he loves her just like he used to. That shy whisper in her ear. Telling her everything she's never heard before and everything she's dreamt of saying.

It's still raining. _Monsoon season in Romania..._ She's just waiting for the ark to pass her by. And deem her unqualified to step on board. But they'll take him away. And he'll ride off into the grey sky. Down the river that was once hard land.

She used to like the rain. But that was before she spent an entire day stumbling through it.

_Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink..._

Her dad used to say that. Some random Muggle poet. She always liked Muggle poetry. It had its own magic to it. Magic that was foreign to her mother's world.

Magic she's been trying to fuse into her life. Ever since he left her.

She likes that he's beside her. Likes that's he's next to her. Not ahead. And not behind. Just there. Traveling alongside her.

She wonders how long he'll stay. This time.

It's late. Evening. Soon the sun will set and they'll still be on the road. Sad vagabonds her mother used to warn her about. _Give them money, and they'll never leave you alone. Don't get a good education, you'll become one of them._ Never in that order, of course.

She's been thinking about her mother a lot today. A habit she can't seem to wean herself off of.

She hopes they stop soon. But she's not sure where that'd be. They seem to be alone. Adrift. Lost.

"Tonks." They haven't spoken in what seems like hours. His voice, a strange, welcome interruption to all her disjointed thoughts.

"Yeah" She hates that her voice sounds so broken. So sad. So miserable. She used to be better at this game. She's not sure what happened.

"Should we...stop somewhere soon? For the night?" She hates that they always seem to be thinking the same thing. Knowing that they're thinking the same thing.

"Yeah. At the next place we see. We can stop." He nods. And they continue forward.

She wishes he'd call her Dora again.

.

There seems to be some sort of magnetic pull between them and fleabag motels. Or maybe it's just that the price is a major draw. Either way. They've found themselves in another tiny, stuffy room. That may or may not have seen better days.

She's tired and he's tired and she wonders if this is a bad combination.

He has his back to her. Turned away. Peering out the window. Stained with age and grime. And she knows she's staring. At the planes of his back. The way his shoulders tense and the blades peer out the wet shirt as he moves the curtain to the center. Blocking the street from view. Closing them off.

He turns around. And suddenly she feels embarrassed. Feels the color rising to her cheeks. Quickly averting her eyes. Without even meaning to.

She wants to hold him but knows she'll break him. Wants to keep him but knows she'll lose him. Wants to save him but knows she'll disappear in the process.

She knows. Knows that she can't win.

_You can't always get what you want..._

No. You can't.

"I think I'll go...get ready for bed."

She had to break the silence somehow.

.

Side by side. All they need now are the bloody his and hers towels.

They're sharing a sink and a bar soap. And even that is proving to be too much for her.

His close proximity. She can feel his body heat. Even from a distance. Sense his every movement. Notices her pulse as it steadily rises.

And she can feel it. Coiled up beneath her skin. _Touch him touch him touch him._ Her fingers itching to grab hold of him. Bring him down to her.

Her skin's on fire and she's can't think. _He's here. He's right here. Right here._ And it'd be so easy. So easy to give in. And love him.

But there are consequences for every action. And theirs have already been spelled out. Spelled out in the blood that has yet to be shed. Outlined in the pain, the agony, the grief. That they have yet to endure.

_Take him. Take him. And love him. And make him yours again._

It's so tempting. Too tempting. Her world's seconds from exploding. Standing next to him. Accidentally bumping her arm with his as she washes her face.

Her heart is beating. And it seems far too loud. _He has to be hearing this._ Pounding, echoing off her ribcage. A heavy, earth-shattering noise. Hurting her. _Too loud._

She's watching him. Out of the corner of her eye. Watching him watch her. She knows that he's looking at her. Can tell. Can feel it. She wonders if he knows too.

She kind of hopes he does.

All she has to do...move a little to the left. And he's there. And she'll be there. Pressed up against them.

She wants to repeat history.

But she knows. Knows that won't happen this time.

She catches their reflections in the mirror. He's pale. Pale and still freckled. Pale with the red hair. Strong jaw. She wants to trace the line. Kiss away the bruises that decorate his face. Robbing it of perfection. And let him melt away.

He's too good. Too good and too simple and too pure and too innocent. Too perfect. To ever make it through this world. With her by his side.

_You know you'll hurt him...you know it._

And she does. She can still see the pain and the anger spread across his face that day. Seven years ago. And she can see herself hurting him again. Maybe not like that. But she will bring him down.

_Demise of the father...grief of the mother._

She can't empty her head. Rid herself of the echoes of a most likely crazy women.

She's not sure why she believes the words. Why she lets herself think that this what will come of them. Their future. Him a father and her a mother. Together.

She watches him press a towel to his face. Blot the water away. Fresh and dewy.

Perfect.

And it breaks her heart.

.

The bed is cold and she doesn't understand. He was here just minutes ago. But it's cold and the sheets feel like ice and she just doesn't understand how body heat can evaporate that quickly.

The carpet's cold and she can see her breath. She runs her hands up and down her arms, covered in goose bumps. The movement is doing nothing. She's still cold. So cold.

She looks down. She's wearing a nightdress. A long, frilly nightdress. That almost skims the ground. White. Virginal. Pretty in all the ways that she never was.

She never wears these things to bed. She settled on boxers and t-shirts long ago. But she's wearing one. And it's oddly jutting out in front

She has a belly. A swollen belly. She can't see her feet or the ground beneath. Her belly's too full. She feels a kick. And shudders.

She's pregnant... _Oh, Merlin._ She has a fucking baby inside her.

She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand at all. She was normal last night...so normal. And where the bloody hell is Charlie?

_He wouldn't leave...no, he wouldn't._

She's shaking. And looking all around.

This isn't the motel. This isn't the motel at all.

She's in a bedroom decorated in yellow. With curtains around the window. But the light isn't coming in and everything feels so strangely dim. There are pictures, moving pictures on the wall. She takes a step toward them. _Oh, Merlin..._

They're of her. And him. And his parents. And her father. And his brothers. And his sister. They're all smiling and waving. Laughing. Hugging.

She's wearing a veil in one of the pictures. Dressed in white. Clutching flowers to her chest. Shining. Happy. Pretty

She's backing away, not able to comprehend what's happening here. She brings a hand to her forehead. And feels cold metal touch her forehead.

_We are married...we're married..we got married and they were happy and now I'm having a baby._

This isn't right and she knows it. Not real. Not really happening.

She runs to the door and forces it open.

It's dark. Dim. As though the light switch is no longer working.

There are stairs. Long, winding stairs. Floral wallpaper. She would never decorate like this in a million years.

There's a mirror. She catches herself in it. Her hair is curly and black. Cut to just below her chin. Her eyes are grey.

_I'm my fucking mother..._

She feels off balance. Strangely so. Her equilibrium shot to shreds. And she's tilting off her axis.

She feels a pain. Deep within her. Pulsing from her gut, reaching out to grab her. It hurts it hurts it hurts. She's going to fall down the stairs.

She clutches the banister. _I just have to get down there and find him and make him explain everything and I'll be okay and we'll all be okay._

There are so many stairs. And with each step she's sure it's her last.

"Charlie..." _That's not my voice...no, it's not my voice. I don't sound like that...no._

"Charlie? Charlie? Charlie!" She's screaming now. And he's not answering. She's yelling and yelling and the pain is only increasing. There are just so many stairs

"CHARLIE!" He's not coming. And her foot misses the step and she's falling and tumbling and falling and hitting her head and her legs and her arms on the wooden stairs and the pain is too much and it hurts so much.

She's on the ground. On her stomach. And, Merlin, she's going to die. _I have to..._

"Charlie..." It's strangled, retching its way up from the catacombs of her soul. "Charlie..."

She can move her legs and is somehow standing up. Standing and shaking and shivering and wanting to lie down in that yellow room at the top of the stairs and wake up in that shitty motel.

She takes a step forward. And another. Walking on cold tile in a house that is not hers.

"Charlie..."

She's in a kitchen. With a stove and pots and pans and things she's never used nor ever planned on.

It's too bright. Yellow bright. Bright enough to make her raise a hand to shield her eyes. So bright...

_This is not my kitchen..._

_This is not my house...my life...my world_

_This isn't me..._

There are flowers everywhere...bouquet upon bouquet...Flowers. Everywhere.

No one buys this many flowers.

But they keep appearing. Popping up. Out of nowhere. On the floor. By the door. In the sink. At her feet.

_Is that blood on the floor...?_

She refuses to investigate.

She's afraid she knows the answer...

"Charlie..."

The _Daily Prophet_ is on the table. She catches the date at the top.

_That's not today...That's...No. If yesterday was yesterday then today can't be that..._

Her thoughts are silenced by the headline underneath.

_'Weasley Son Found Brutally Murdered.'_

The paper hits the ground with a smack.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

"No" She's moaning and burying her head in her hands and she's not breathing and it's so fucking cold in this house, this house that isn't hers and she just wants it all to go away and she doesn't want to be in the bright kitchen with all the flowers and she's not her mother and doesn't want to look like her and she doesn't use pots and pans and yellow isn't her favorite color and there were too many stairs and there's blood on the floor and she knows whose it is and why the fuck are there so many bloody flowers and she can't breathe or think and this isn't really happening and _he's not dead_.

She feels the rumbling. The kicking.

_The baby. The baby. Oh, Merlin, the bloody baby..._

_I killed him...We killed him..._

And she knows and she's screaming and sobbing and wishing she could tear her hair out...

It's laughing at her.

And she knows that this is real...

_Thump_.

.

_What the fuck?_

He's already out of bed and the lights are on and his fists are drawn and he's ready to deck whatever it is that goes bump in the night.

But it's just her.

It's always her.

She's on the floor. Shaking. Sweating. On the verge of hysterics. Running her hands over her belly. Over and over again.

"The baby...my baby...what happened to the baby?" She's rocking and gasping and her hair is just hanging there.

She looks so tiny and scared and she's wearing next to nothing. Just her knickers. And an oversized shirt. Of his. That's ridden up her trembling bare thighs.

He's not sure what to do...

"Tonks..." He's tentative at first. Not sure how unstable she is at the moment.

"Tonks..." She doesn't seem to hear him. She's still rocking back and forth, muttering to herself about babies and old women and her mother and...him?

"Tonks...hey, Tonks" Still nothing.

He's getting closer and closer to her. He can see the tears glistening on her cheeks and just how pale she is. Frightening in the lamplight.

He reaches a hand out. Almost touching her shoulder. Her injured shoulder covered in his clothes.

"Dora..."

She reacts. Her head jerks up and her hair falls back. She's looking at him with an expression he can't quite peg.

He frowns. She looks so tiny...Childlike. As though she was woken by a nightmare. A nightmare that's choking her. And he wonders what she's so afraid of. The monster hiding under the bed. Or maybe in the closet.

"Are you...are you okay?"

She's not breathing. Or moving. She's just staring. _Oh, Merlin. What the fuck is wrong with her?_

She's just staring. Not blinking. Huge grey eyes overflowing and locked on him.

_She's gone bloody catatonic on me..._

"Tonks...Tonks" He reaches a hand out. Touching her normal shoulder. "Dora..."

She's shaking. Shaking her head slightly. A small back and forth motion. Attempting to negate. Or clarify. Or erase. He's not sure.

He sinks to his knees beside her. Still touching her. He can feel the chill beneath the cotton.

"Dora..."

Her head drops. And pops back up again. And she blinks.

"We're still here...we're still here" A strangled whisper. Terror still eminent in her shaking voice. "We're still here..."

She keeps saying it. And he is beyond unnerved.

"Yeah'course we're still here. It was just a dream. A bad dream. But...we're still here" He doesn't know what he's saying. He does know that he's slowly stroking her shoulder and her upper back. He's just not sure why.

Suddenly she turns to him. Identifying the voice she's been hearing. The look in her eyes terrifies him. Grief and sorrow and fear and hope and desire...and something else. Something he's afraid to put a name to.

One tear drips down. He watches it splash against the grey t-shirt. Leaving its mark.

Her hands are on his chest. Sliding up and down. Clutching fistfuls of his shirt. Up and down, down and up. She's shivering and shuddering and her teeth are chattering. And she's whispering her own brand of nonsense that he's having difficulty understanding.

"Okay...you're okay...you're...alive...okay...okay...you're..." He swears he hears her say "mine." But he may be just as crazed as she is. At three o'clock in the morning.

She's sliding towards him. Her long legs tangling with his bare ones. Skin against skin. Smooth on rough. Delicate on barbaric. She's sidling up to him, hands still exploring him. She's breathing heavily. Drugged. Drugged by the visions only she has seen.

"Real...you're real...real...okay...real...you're real..." Words keep slipping from her lips. He can feel the breath spread across his neck. She's almost in his lap. Curling into him. Hands are creeping higher. Up to his shoulders and down again. Somehow his own hands have found their way to her hips. _So tiny...and light...so small..._

She's burying herself in him. Touching and feeling. Claiming him.

Her breathing's heavier. Labored. Intense. She pulls her head back. Letting dark hair hide her face. He pushes some away. Cupping her cheek in one hand. There's no color in her cheeks. And he wants to paint them pink.

Her mouth is moving. But sound is no longer coming out. She's in his lap. Hands resting on his ribs. Chest heaving. The portrait of all he wants.

Her lips find his. For the second time that day. Cold lips. Cold, trembling lips. Nipping at his own bottom lip. Softly. Lightly. Gracefully. Ghosts of kisses on his lips. He lets his tongue reach out to her. Warm on cold. Warm her up. Heat her soul.

He's kissing her. Hot. Wet. Open mouths. Aching hands. Tongues sliding against each other. Hands retracing bodies that have hardened tight with age. Her hands frantically clutching on to him. His shoulders. His chest. His neck his hair his arms his ribs his soul. She's so cold and so tiny and so close and so far and she's right here and so is he. She's clutching his shirt. Assaulting his mouth. Teeth are colliding, nails are scratching. He needs her. He needs her now. Seven odd years of want. Hitting the boiling point right now. She's arching into him. He's moaning and fighting back. He needs her. Desperate need. A crazed need that's fire in his veins, spilling out his fingertips. He needs her. Needs to be inside her. Presses himself against her, begging her pelvis to react.

He meets her eyes. And is met with disappointment.

They're blank. A slate grey. Without a trace of clouds. Or warmth. Or want. That he knows is bleeding from his own.

He watches her swallow. And lean back. Her hands falling to her sides. He lets his own do the same.

"It was just a bad dream."

She stands up. Shirt falling back along her thighs, hiding her black knickers his hands were just caressing. And crawls back into bed. Her back to him. Covers pulled up and over. Messy black head contrasting with the pillow.

He can't seem to get his legs to work. And sits there for a while. Back against the wall. He can feel the wallpaper peeling. Curling against his neck.

He knows she didn't fall back asleep. He watched for the rise and fall.

.


	8. Chapter Eight: Hero in the Sky

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: I may have delusions of grandeur, but owning Harry Potter and the like are not a part of those…

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Eight: Hero in the Sky**

“And so it is  
Just like you said it would be   
Life goes easy on me   
Most of the time   
And so it is   
The shorter story   
No love, no glory   
No hero in her sky…

Did I say that I loathe you?   
Did I say that I want to   
Leave it all behind?

I can't take my mind off of you   
I can't take my mind off you…”�

_\- “The Blower’s Daughter”� - Damien Rice_

.

.

.

_“No!”�_

Panting, heavily, chest heaving, restricting breath. She’s sitting up, back rigid and upright. Trembling hands clasped above breastbone, eyes still dimmed by sleep.

She can hear the shower running in the next room.

Idly, she rubs a hand over her chest. A vain attempt to still a hammering heart.

She can hear names but can’t sound them out. She can see faces but forgets who they are. She has seen things that she knows can’t exist, can’t be tangible in the real world. Foreign syllables that slide from one synapse to another but get lost in translation.

She knows that something’s missing. But it’s lost with all the rest.

She’s trying to remember why she was so afraid.

She remembers a train ride. She thinks about it as she glances out the window, past the wrought iron grate, and out upon the grey. She rode a train to get here. And she wasn’t alone in the car. There had been a woman, a woman whose features have already faded and turned fuzzy, a mental image that has decayed over time.

It’s only been two days. She should still be able to recall it all.

But she can’t.

It’s her head.Muddled and stuffy, the way it should feel after a night of hard drinking, but she knows alcohol consumption wasn't a part of the night before.

Men in hoods dance through her visions, a menacing two step through dark alleys. And her with blood on her hands. She realizes that she’s staring at bare palms, waiting for the red to seep out through the lines, spelling out her future through the remains of another.

_“Born out of love from the unwed. Blood that flows through his veins shall be the key. Open the demise of the father, the grief of the mother. The power to the Dark Lord."_

Where did she hear that? Where did those words come from? Some sick prophecy. She can’t remember if the sentence was place upon her head, or merely gossip overheard, drama from a novel she can’t remember reading.

_“Born out of love…of the…from…blood…father and mother…Dark Lord.”�_

She can feel the words, the thought pattern leaking slowly, the slow fizzle of a balloon with a pinprick, deflating, quietly, unconsciously.

_Who the bleeding hell is the Dark Lord?_

A flutter of panic works its way through Tonks’s chest. She can't place his name, but she can the fear.

_I have to write this down…I have to write it down…write it and keep it…_

She’s not sure why, but she knows. Knows this message is important. Knows she must remember it. Remember the words and not necessarily the meaning.

She’s across the room in a matter of seconds. Wrenching drawers open in a manic search for pen, paper, lipstick, writing utensil. Anything.

A pencil. A stub of a pencil rolling through a middle dresser drawer.

It’s enough.

The map of Romania sits there in the shade of the mirror, useless and ignored. She snatches it, paper ripping at overly folded edges.

Her hands are shaking, she’s muttering to herself.

_“Born…born…the father…and…and the mother.”�_

“Fuck.”� A breathless curse refracted off the mirror. She stares intently at her collarbone, then the wasted pencil in her still shivering hands. “God…fucking…dammit.”�

It’s lost.

.

He’s been wearing the same clothes for what seems like the last lifetime and a half.

But he left his bag in the other room. The other poorly decorated room. With her.

He lets the hot water abuse him for a couple seconds longer, recognizing the slow shift from hot to cold, the water heater bidding him farewell.

He wishes he was at home. He wishes he was fourteen again when the world made some sort of sense and all that really mattered were sport and home-cooked meals.

_What the hell was the name of that game? Started with a “Q.”� Damn sure of that…_

It bothers him a bit that he can’t place his thoughts in a logical order. That he’s forgotten the names of things, the locations of others. He dimly remembers a conversation in a diner regarding this matter. He just can’t remember the information exchanged.

“You need some more sleep, mate.”� He almost expects his reflection to answer, so like a stranger he appears.

He remained at his post against the wall all night. Staring at her still form, curled in a relaxed fetal position, spine poking out in the gap between t-shirt and knickers. He watched her take form in the gathering sunlight, then hidden by approaching clouds. Lost in the reverie of her.

She was always easy to love from afar.

Running a comb through messy hair, he thinks of her and the way she used to be. Pictures her moss-covered epitaph. “Here lies Dora. Rambunctious student, zealous lover. Master trouble maker, supreme klutz. Infamous for her grin and ever-changing hair.”� He can see Tonks walking away from the grave, climbing out from six feet under and still the color of dirt and death.

He didn’t think it was possible for a person to change that much. He misses her clumsiness and her politically incorrectness. Her pen chance for always saying the wrong thing, too much, information utterly off topic. Her pink hair, green hair, blue hair. Impish grin and mischievous shrug of the shoulders.

He wishes she was still innocent.

And throws his comb down in defeat.

All he can see now is her. Standing there with cold eyes as he called her a whore.

He hates that when he looks at her now he sometimes still feels the same.

He opens the door a crack, still clad in a towel. Damp feet sticking to a stale mint carpet. He doesn’t like to think about its possible past as it stamps itself on his bare feet.

And there she is. Tonks. Standing in front of the mirror. Staring at a map.

He clears his throat. Not sure what reaction he’s going for here.

“Charlie.”� She doesn’t look up. Head still tucked to chest. Fingers tracing roads and rivers, rails and streets. “Do you know where we go once we get to London?”�

“We go to…Wait.”� He knew that they were headed towards London. He’s just not sure why anymore. But her nonchalance makes him wonder. She asks as though inquiring about the health of a miscellaneous third cousin. “Um, why is that we’re headed to London again?”�

Her head jerks up at this. And the map flutters to the dresser. “I thought you knew…”�

He realizes that she’s not looking at him. Instead, her eyes are firmly planted on the chunk of wall located directly above his right ear.

“Charlie…what’s going on with us?”�

He almost wants to laugh. Thinking they could fill a thousand pages with what’s going on between the two of them. But she wouldn’t ask about that. Especially with the tension now. He can feel the rubber band stretching, impatiently waiting for the resounding snap and the stinging pain.

“I don’t quite know. Actually, I’m not quite sure I know what you’re talking about. Our apparent issue with amnesia or the shit that’s built up between us for the last seven years?”�

_Snap_.

.

She can’t seem to understand him and his motives.

She saw the bathroom door open. Caught his reflection in the mirror. Caught the towel. And the perfect abs. The chiseled physique and muscled arms. She just didn’t catch the point.

She’s well aware as to what she’s lost.

And now. Now she hears the things he says, and more importantly the emotions allowing them to surface.

She doesn’t like it.

“I was referring to our inability to remember where the bloody hell we were going, but if there are other issues you’d like to discuss…”� She can hear the edge. Feel the ice with each breath. She’s not sure when she became so cold. She does know that only he seems to have this effect on her.

They all used to say she was such a happy girl.

“Well,”� The forced courtesy makes her ears ache. “We can discuss memory loss, I suppose…”�

It’s getting a bit too old for her.

“Cut the shit, Charlie.”�

“Right. We’re all friends here.”�

The sarcasm cuts her to the quick. And she feels twelve years old again, the old “eye for an eye”� revenge tactic understandable once again.

She can sometimes almost hate him.

And she’s tired of it. Tired of walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting him. Feeling as though she owes him something for being young and stupid and careless with other people’s emotions.

He can be just as dumb.

She’s sick of suffering alone.

“Charlie…”� She begins to pace. Nervous habits reaching the forefront. “I can’t keep doing this. Tiptoeing around you like you’re a bloody volcano…and one wrong fucking step, and boom! Molten lava everywhere! I mean, God, when did we become so well-mannered? Do you not remember what arses we used to be? Let's go back. Honesty makes us arseholes. Okay. It’s a given. So let’s forget this…politeness and be honest for once.”�

He’s massaging his neck, staring at the corner of the room.

This irritates her for some reason.

“You could at least look at me.”� And he does. An arched eyebrow spelling out his anger and impatience. His desire for this conversation to have ended minutes in the past.

“I thought we were being arseholes now. My mistake. Never yours.”�

“Fuck you, Charlie.”� She pauses. Counting to ten and picturing rainbows that are supposedly soothing. _Temper, temper, temper._ “Sorry. I - I just…I just don’t get what it is that you want from me, Charlie. I — I understand that I hurt you…”�

Laughter meets her ears. And she doesn’t like it.

“Do you? Do you really understand, _Tonks_? Do you get it? Because, I happen to be of the belief that you don’t.”�

The cloak of civility hits the floor forgotten. Crumpled in a messy ball, waiting to be trampled to death.

“What is there for me to not understand?”� Words shot at him like a magician’s daggers, hitting the wall around him, the map of a corpse. “Huh, Charlie? I’m only reminded of it every bloody second of every bloody day. So tell me. What is it that I am just not understanding here?”�

“What is there to understand? You want to know, what is there... Jesus, everything… Fuck, Tonks. Everything.”�

“Like what? Explain it to me, since I’m apparently too fucking dense to get these things. So, please, tell me.”�

He chuckles. Again. A humorless laugh at her own expense. A laugh to hide the grief. “Do you know what it’s like to be so bloody in love with someone? Do you know what that’s like? Do you know what it’s like to love them, have a row with them, return and find out they fucked someone other than you? That they went to bed, let someone else touch them and feel them and make them come. Do you know what it’s like to be lied to, betrayed by them? Be asked by the bleeding tosser himself if you’re still together? That he’s sorry but he kind of shagged your girl two fucking months ago and a couple of times since then? Do you know what it’s like to find out that they don’t care? That they’ve been working alongside your entire bleeding family, and not once, not _once_ do they ask how you are? To never hear from them again, then have them show up on your bloody doorstep pretending nothing happened?”� With each question he’s come closer. Closer and closer, gesticulations coming near to spousal abuse. “Do you know…do you know what it’s like to still want them nonetheless?”�

She wants to cry. But she doesn’t cry. She’s Nymphadora Tonks and she doesn’t cry. She just smiles and trips and falls down stairs and makes the kiddies laugh and no one knows that half the time laughter is the closest thing to tears and it’s just easier to smile than frown, but she can feel them. The tears. The choking of her throat, and her desire to slide down the grimy wall, into a ball, and just let them take her over.

She had let herself forget that she had fucked him more than once. But she remembers now. And the shame is just as fresh.

“I’m sorry…”�

A puff of hot air, an attempt at yet another wry, bitter chuckle. “I don’t want to hear it. Nymphadora.”� Fear. Coursing up from her toes and into her heart. He never calls her that. _Dora…call me Dora again_ …His hands gripping her shoulders, trembling under the weight of the world, the weight of his stare. The weight of a guilt that has only exponentially grown over the years.

“Charlie, please. I just want…”�

“Yes, _Tonks_. You want and you want and you want. You want what you can’t have and what’s being denied you. I get that. You wanted me and then you got me and suddenly the game wasn’t as much fun as you thought it would be. So we fight and we fight and we fuck because it’s what you want. You get bored and you want and I leave and you fuck whoever happens to be around —"

“That’s not fair —"

“I’m not fucking finished! Jesus, Tonks. It’s always about you. Always. You want to be forgiven, you want to be loved. You want things to be right. For your benefit.”�

“And you want to hate me.”� She lets the words hang in the hair, bubbles weighted with lead, her voice the child blowing them into the air. “You want to hate me.”� She’s not asking; it’s a mere statement of fact.

She shoves him off her. Tripping over her shoes, sniffling, banging her shoulder on the doorframe leading to the bathroom. Early afternoon sun angrily entering the room and calling them its own.

She hates that he reduces her to this.

“Does it make it that much easier for you?”� She can’t bring herself to look at him. Not yet. She’s afraid she’ll see the seventeen year old boy she saw all those years ago. The boy who yelled at her, in front of friend and foe, the boy who brought her down to the gutter he felt she belonged in.

They always say the Weasleys are such good people. She has a feeling they could easily be the bad. Set their mind to something, set their souls on fire, and someone’s sure to fry.

“I was in love with you! And you _fucked_ someone else! Bloody hell, Tonks! Do you not understand? Do you not get what I’ve been telling you? I _loved_ you!”�

She’s heard the accusations long enough.

She whirls, caught between the two points of the wall, glaring at him. “We were sixteen! We were sixteen years old! What the fuck did we know about love?”�

He’s closing in on her once again. “I know…I knew it wasn’t supposed to end like this.”�

He’s face to face with her now. And she can feel defiance mingling with her anger. “Charlie, there are no such things as love stories and happy endings. Even a bitter bastard like yourself must know that. There’s merely the tragedies and the comedies. Nothing in between.”� Inhale. Exhale. Let him feel you breathe. “I’m done apologizing. We’re all allowed to fuck up every now and then.”�

She pushes him aside, once again. Sidesteps him. With two doors as options, she heads to the bathroom.

“Why do you have them call you Tonks?”� She freezes. His voice as soothing as a death-filled lullaby. “Why aren’t you Dora anymore?”� He’s going to rock her straight to sleep. Forever.

She pulls at the shirt, attempting to lower the hem even more, realizing now that she has yet to shower and get dressed and it’s already after noon and where did the time go and why are they still here, stretching the neckline as she goes. She turns her head, slightly. Eyes veiled by darkness.

“You don’t get hurt with a name like Tonks.”�

And she turns into the door, closing the door behind her.

She turns the cold porcelain knob, igniting the shower. And slides. Slides down the door, praying she doesn’t catch a splinter.

_“Why aren’t you Dora anymore?”�_

And sobs.

.

It’s easy to be disgusted with someone else. Hell, at times it’s just plain natural. But to be disgusted with yourself? Few feelings compare.

He hates that he can hear her crying.

He hates that he was in a towel during the entire exchange. And only a towel.

He can still hear her crying. And buries his face in his palms.

“Shit…”�

He wonders when he became the champion of fucking things up.

_Stop crying…please…stop crying…_

He meant every word he said. But hearing her in pain, knowing that behind a strip of dry wall and plaster she’s letting tears slip away kills him. And makes him wish he could take it all back.

“Fucking honesty…”�

She’s right. Honesty merely makes them into villains. And he’s the one in the black cape this time as she cowers behind closed doors.

He hates that he’s made her into a damsel in distress. He hates that he feels the need to save her.

She killed three men yesterday.

Yet she fears him and the things he can do to her.

He finds the thought jarring and unsettling. And wishes he hadn’t come across it.

He’s not sure why he moved to the door. The same spirit that forced his tongue down her throat in the alley and his hands on her ass the night before. Lust. Temptation. Possession and ownership. Need. Fear.

He can feel the doorknob in his hand, twisting under his will. Door stuck behind her weight, creaking slowly open.

“Tonks…”�

She’s on her feet. Holding herself as though she’s been struck. He can feel the guilt. He feels a wife-beater and can’t quite explain why.

He never wants to see her like this again.

Tear-streaked and empty. Sad, alone, a waif. Crooked hips and crossed arms, bending knee and curled toes.

She’s not supposed to be weak.

She's never weak.

“Is everything…are you…”� He doesn’t know what he’s asking. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. He does know that the idea of leaving refuses to lodge itself in his head.

“There’s something…wrong…with me…”� And she’s sobbing. Chin to chest and arms around her middle. “And I don’t…know what it is…”�

It’s last night all over again. Her on the floor and shaking and suddenly in his arms. She wasn’t crying then, but she is now. Trebling against him.

He doesn’t know why he does this to himself. Get this close and resist against the tide to pull away.

He’s going to drown eventually.

“We shouldn’t be here…”� A quiet whisper in her shoulder. “But I don’t know where we’re supposed to go…”�

He knows it’s wrong, but does it anyway. Kisses her. Softly. Along her cheek and up to her eyes. Soft kisses meant to comfort and erase.

“We’re all wrong…”� Her hands on his bare chest, searching for something to cling to. “But I don’t know what right is anymore…”�

Her mad version of poetry lost as her mouth finds his. And right and wrong and here and there and good and bad and win and lose all vanish from his mind.

It’s just the now. And her. Kissing him like he’ll disappear the second they come undone.

She’s no longer crying, merely breathing in heavy gasps.

And he’s kissing her and bruising her and knows that they’re still fighting just in a new arena.

_“You want to hate me…Does it make it that much easier for you?”�_

No. It makes it that much harder, he thinks as he pushes her knickers to the floor. His towel sliding down to greet them there and warm the ground. Propelling her out of the bathroom and towards the bed. The bed only one occupied last night but two will share right now.

She’s down on the bed, and shirt’s overhead. And they’re naked. And he knows what comes next. They’ve practiced this time and time before.

The pounding shower becomes their score.

The kisses don’t slow down and hands scurry in their wake, desperate to match the frenzied tempo already set by history and time.

She’s arching and they’re meeting…

And it’s begun.

_“I knew it wasn’t supposed to end like this…”�_

.


	9. Chapter Nine: Two Walls

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: I believe in Santa Claus, but I don’t believe FalseEyelashes owns the Harry Potter empire…

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Eight: Two Walls**

“The chemicals between us   
The walls that lie between us   
Lying in this bed   
The chemicals displaced   
There is no lonelier place   
Than lying in this bed…”�

_\- “Chemicals Between Us”� - Bush_

.

.

.

She just lays there, half covered by the sheet. Post-coital guilt swarming all around her like the clichéd cigarette smoke they’re sorely lacking. Yes. They fucked. And she knows that they’ve fucked up.

Fighting and sex go together quite well. But forgiveness and closure don’t fit into the equation nearly as neatly. She’s slowly learning that fact. The hard way. The temporarily satisfying but permanently damaging way.

He exhales heavily next to her. She can’t bring herself to turn to him.

They never spoke a word.

Silent sex is strange sex in her book.

The shower continued to pound in the background, still raining down on slick porcelain, accompanied by the passionate pants and typical heavy breathing.

She knows the shagging was just the ephemeral stitching shabbily holding together the so-called fabric of their relationship. She fears the second she looks his way, makes a noise or merely leaves the bed the stitches will be roughly ripped apart and all will come undone.

She just lays there. Ignoring the fact she’s naked and almost fully on display. For him.

_Temporary…everything is just temporary…_

She knows the peace is. Yes. She knows and she acknowledges the fact that silence of any type between the two of them can’t be long-lasting.

But she knows the rest can’t be.

There’s something staining about lying there, awake and conscious next to him. But she’s sick of naming and categorizing emotions and lets the feeling rest. Unclaimed in her breast.

It makes her want to explain. And apologize. Even though those lines have been done to death and more.

“It’s two o’clock.”�

His voice breaks everything. And she feels a silent tear slip down her left cheek, hidden in the shadows away from him.

“Is it.”� Automatic response number twelve.

“Yeah.”�

“Okay.”�

And she continues to look, straight ahead, head in a vise, staring straight on into nothingness and nowhere. Eyes glazed, drugged, heavy, closing slightly, then slipping open.

She feels the need to speak. And obliges.

“I’m still Dora, you know… I still am. She never left…”�

Monotonous. She never used to talk like that. And wonders if it’s her that’s really speaking. Or merely the ghost of a spirit that’s been dampened by the weather of the past few days.

It’s been pouring.

She wonders dimly where the passion went. In her. It’s not in these sheets or coursing through her veins. But a week ago it was falling from the tips of her shorn red locks. Now chapped lips can’t seem to find it anywhere.

And she can seem him. In the corner of a wet eye. He turns to her. She watches him watch her. Watches him analyzing her jaw lines, her slightly gaping lips, the tongue that peeks out to wet them.

She needs to stop turning to the past. Ghost merely haunt, rather than recreate.

_I can’t go back…_

She closes her eyes. Shoveling the last mound of dirt.

“She’s still here…”� And the dirt lands with a plop. And the gravedigger can go home now. “She’s still here…”�

She wonders if she says it enough that the words might just be true.

She’s always believed in a difference between flat-out lying and merely storytelling, crafting fantasy out of reality.

She thinks that it's called survival.

“Okay.”� Two short syllables spell out a disbelief even he can’t hide. For her.

She almost admires him for it. His half-assed attempt at appeasing her.

“I think I’ll finally shower.”�

And she finally rises. Leaving the claustrophobia of that stale mattress and her equally empty former lover.

Lover. L-o-v-e-r.

She walks naked to the bathroom. Feeling his eyes on her arse the entire way. Charlie always was an arse man, not nearly as interested in the tits. She’s not nearly as accommodating as she once thought she was.

In the back of her head, she hears a voice, a cute, pixyish voice, reminiscent of Tinker Bell, her favorite, whispering “But you can change that,”� but she doesn’t understand. She can’t change her appearance on whim, make herself shrink and grow and mold and shift.

The voice moves farther into the back of her brain.

She shuts the door and locks it. Not sure if she’s trying to keep him out or barricade herself in.

The water is like ice now, running for longer than it’s ever been meant to. Water pressure steadily falling to a near drip. She turns it off. She’ll wait.

She turns on the sink instead, washing her face, scrubbing it.

She wants to go home, but is hit by the realization that she’s not sure where that is.

“London.”� She mutters it out loud. “I live in London.”�

False comfort really is a beautiful thing.

“My name is Dora. My name _is_ Dora. Dora. Dora Tonks. Hello. My name is Dora. Yes. I am Dora. I am Dora. I am I am I am I am.”�

Staring into bloodshot eyes, she didn’t even realize that she had been speaking. But she is. Whispers that fog up the mirror courtesy of their intimate proximity.

“I am I am I am…”�

She remembers having blue hair and green hair and blue eyes and hazel eyes and being tall and short. She remembers being everyone but the girl whose reflection she can’t get rid of.

She wonders if it’s possible to cease to exist.

“I am I am I am I am I am I am…”�

And she doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Locks eyes with the stranger and refuses to go down. Naked and alone and in the company of a person she no longer knows yet has always called herself.

“I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am…”�

She pictures the girl with the bright orange hair. The pink, the purple, the turquoise, the black. She pictures the girl he once loved.

She pictures the woman he can love.

“I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am…”�

Borderline gibberish.

She pictures him.

She’s falling apart at the seams.

“I am…”�

.

He blames Will for the cigarette craving. He’s the one who brought the smokes to the camp.

_The camp…Bloody hell, what the fuck did I do for a living?_

He honestly can’t remember.

_Animals? Something like that…maybe. Or not. I lived in a bloody tent…_

Will.

Will was dead. He saw him die. But he doesn’t remember how.

_I killed someone too…and so did she._

He wonders if this makes them bad people.

He has enough guilt to live with as is. And he can't seem to shut any of it out.

He’s felt lost before. He’s a man in his mid-twenties. He’s had his share of “where do I go from here?”� angst. But not like this.

He knows that they’re in Bucharest. He knows that he has a family waiting for him somewhere near London. He knows he went to school in England. He knows that they were classmates.

He knows that she’s a stranger now.

He prays that she hasn’t always been.

She was always an engaging creature, the kind of person that draws you in but holds you back. A leash. She kept him on a leash when it came to her emotions. And he was never given enough slack.

For such the passionate person she once was, he’s never seen her come unraveled like this.

_Makes sense…dead mother, dead cousin…now this mess…_

He misses her. More than he cares to admit.

He stands up. In the cold grey glare of the outside world.

They need to leave.

.

She’s re-entered the room. Wet hair and towel-clad. A reprisal of earlier that day, merely a role reversal.

She looks at him. Buttoning his shirt. Concentrating.

“How’s your arm?”�

She had forgotten…

“Fine.”� She can’t take her eyes off his fingers, slipping the button through the hole.

The emotion, that nameless, feared emotion dredged up out of her while lying with him in bed begins to resurface.

She feels adrift. And something tells her that only his fingers will hold her down in place.

She wants him.

And hates herself for recognizing it.

She wonders if this is what it feels like to go mad.

_Admittance is the first step to solving the problem…_

He’s always been her problem.

“You alright?”�

She clears her throat. Realizes she’s been standing in the doorway of the bathroom, bare save for the towel, staring at him. She’s been caught. Red-handed and starry eyed.

“Fine.”� She moves forward, grabbing her one pair of pants. And his shirt. Again.

“Where are we going?”� Her attempt at small talk. A graver question than she understands.

“I…I don’t really know. I just felt the need…to get out of this room.”�

They stand on opposite sides of the room. Charlie to the west; her to the east. A stalemate all their own. They both have their own weapons they could launch. But they’re under a peace accord for now. A sham document signed mid-copulation.

And those never last.

“Right. So, do we…do you want to head…back? Tonight? To London?”�

He exhales slowly. “What do we do when we get there? I mean, Tonks…don’t you think this is pretty fucked up? We don’t remember where we come from. I mean, hell, I couldn’t tell you if my life depended on it how you get to the house where I grew up, despite the fact I can almost picture it perfectly. How the bloody hell do you explain that?”�

“I don’t know…”� She hopes his question was rhetorical.

“Maybe we…maybe we wait it out here. For just a spell.”�

A spell. She can’t explain why the word spurs her mind on. The meaning lost in a morse code she can’t quite tap.

“Stay here…”�

“Yeah. Bad idea?”�

“I —I don’t know. Weren’t we kind of on the run? I…I don’t really remember why…”� She’s clutching the towel as though a life preserver. “But…should we stay? Do you think it’s safe?”�

“We’ve been here, what? A day. And nothing, no one has shown up in that stint of time. I think we’ll be good for one more night.”�

His naiveté makes her swoon. She can feel the neediness boiling in her belly. She wants for nothing more than to throw her arms around him and make him hers again.

_He loved Dora. He loved Dora. He loved Dora._

She’s still banking on the fact that he still does.

“Okay. But…um. Can we get some food first?”�

She feels as though it’s been her first good idea in weeks.

.

They found food. Not good food, but food nonetheless.

He’s found out that Romania is definitely not the food capital of the world. For a reason.

She made them stop in a seedy clothing store near the motel. He doesn’t blame her. The idea of living in the same clothes for more than a day at a time, especially with the type of days that they’ve been living, would make him sick too.

They still haven’t run out of money from the taxi yet.

He’s not sure who to thank for that one.

But they’re back. In a room that could double as a prison cell. Locking them and their emotions inside for fear of the outside world.

He’s not sure when they became such agoraphobics.

He heads to the bathroom. Only to find her in there already, trying out her new toothbrush.

She spits. And looks at him. Then gargles.

After that look, he knows he should leave. Nothing good can come following a look like that.

He turns.

“Charlie.”�

Rooted to the spot. She strikes again.

“Yeah?”�

“Charlie.”� The way she says, he can’t respond. She says it like a prayer, and incantation. A hope for what she needs.

His heart has already sped up, breathing has already quickened. Innate reactions beyond his control.

And she’s there. Grabbing him by the sides.

He thought that earlier had been a mistake. A rare occurrence. An accident that had been waiting to happen, but has now been cleared off the road.

“Charlie.”�

She has his shirt bunched up in her hands.

He swallows.

You’re not supposed to want a stranger this badly.

But he does.

And she’s closing the short distance between them.

_Not again not again not again…_

And they’re kissing and she’s up against the wall and he’s wondering where his willpower went and he can feel her moving against him, with him, to him. So perfect and so fitting in his arms.

He pictures her from earlier. Pictures how unfamiliar she had become. The stranger he had shared a bed with few hours before.

_I can’t do this._

He steps away, shaking his head, eyes on broken linoleum and scuffed boots. Refusing to make eye contact. Refusing.

“Charlie? Charlie…what?”� She’s coming towards him, placing hands on either side his face, wrenching him towards her. Always towards her.

“No…no, I can’t…”� Swats her away. His fly on the wall. And finally dignifies her with a glance.

She has a look to her now. A look utterly and completely foreign to him, but that’s become the norm as of late. A look reeking of anger. Of resentment. And overcome with grief.

Her shoulders are slumped. Her shirt open. Hair rumpled. He wishes his fingers were back in it. Again.

She’s hunched. And looking at him. Unwavering eye contact.

He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now. An odd concoction of impatience. Lust. And terror.

“What do you want from me, Charlie?”� He never wants to hear that voice again. That sad, sad and sorry and all too apologetic tone.

It kills him that she thinks that the past is what this about.

It kills him that actually that is what this is about…

He doesn’t know what to say. It’s easier to just let his fingers roam his messy head. And look at the floor. Hoping the answer spells itself out in the cracked linoleum. He doesn’t know what he wants. And he does. He wants the past to be undone. He wants to start over again. And have everything that has transcended between the two of them be just a strange dream.

He wants her to come back to him. The her he continues to place on a pedestal no one has come close to toppling. He wants her, the her he could wax poetic on all night, the her he loved and continues to love, the her that’s not standing in front of him.

But that can’t happen. What’s done is done and can’t come undone.

It’s always been easier to take it out on her. Instead of moving on.

“It’s been years. Charlie, it’s been forever. I was young. I - - you were young. We were kids. We were just two stupid…kids in…love.”�

He’s surprised. Surprised she dared to call it that. Surprised she thinks that’s what this is about…two teenagers and their fucked hormones. No. Today, it’s about her.

But she keeps talking. Needy apologies spilling from her unceremoniously.

“And I fucked up. I know I did. And I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ve said I’m sorry _so many times_. And I am.”� She’s stepping towards him. Small, mincing steps. As though the tiny bones holding her toes together will shatter if her feet press too soundly. “I’m sorry.”� A breathy whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”� Her hands are on his chest. Her mouth against his ear.

He doesn’t want to hear apologies anymore.

“Let me make it better.”�

A handful of simple words. Meaningless on their own. Together, they become his undoing.

Her lips press below his ear. And he’s given in and he knows it and moans. Softly. Burying his face in the crook of her neck. Inhaling her. Claiming her. For the few minutes that she allows herself to be his.

She’s whispering nonsense, babbling breathless, and him, appreciating the energy, the passion this time around. Not like earlier. She wants this too. And she’s so tight against him. But he wants more.

His hand on her arse. Pressing her into him. Making her groan and grind.

He pulls her up to him. Seeing her eyes. Her eyes and everything that lay behind them. Secrets and lies and things that only one of them could ever understand. He sees the past and her. And him. Every angry word ever said. Every tryst behind unlocked doors. Every boy, every man she’s been with. Since him. Faceless, nameless men. Men who have touched and felt and had everything that was his first.

He knows she’s going to hurt him. He knows. Knows as he grips the dark hair at the base of her neck. Grips and brings her down to him. His lips. Licking and devouring. Invading and diving. She’s always been the best. Always knew the right way to kiss. How to catch his bottom lip right there. In between her blunt teeth. How to touch him. Make him arch and murmur words no one hears but her.

She’s changed, but she’s still the same.

She’s always known how to get him to walk the earth. Barefoot if necessary.

She’s making sounds in the back of her throat. Whimpering, desperate noises. That are driving him mad.

He’s going to fuck her. He knows this. He’s going to fuck her right against the bathroom sink.

She seems to know it too.

She’s clawing at his shirt. Attempting to pull it over his head. Without breaking away from him. He does it for her. Grabbing the hem and wrenching it up. Up and over. Bare chest to her opened shirt. He’s feeling her beneath it. Running hands over black lace. Wondering why a girl like her owns such fancy underwear. Glad that she does nonetheless.

She drops her shirt to the floor. Rubbing against him. _It’s too good…it’s too good…it’s too fucking good…_

Her hands at his belt. Tiny fingers playing at his waist. She’s grunting in frustration. Small puffs of air against his mouth. And he’s so ready and needs this so bad and hears the buckle hit the sink behind him. A metallic clang. Ringing out through the room. The odd cymbal crash to their own frenzied cadence.

He can feel them falling down. Feel her hands. And he’s spun her around. And lifted and dropped. Peeling down her knickers. Pleased that she’s enjoying this as much as he is.

_This can’t last…it can’t…it’s too fucking good…_

They’re frozen for a second. Speechless. Wordless. Breathing. Heavily. Hands on her hips.

He’s afraid to meet her eyes.

He pulls her roughly towards him. Watching her bite her lip.

“Love me…”�

He growls as he slides in, watching his reflection instead of her.

_This can’t last…_

He catches her eyes. And knows.

He’s not going to win this one.

.


	10. Chapter Ten: Crooked Spin

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: Without the proper medication I happen to believe I own the rights to Harry Potter and every single piece of merchandise that goes along with it. But that doesn’t make it true…

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Ten: Crooked Spin**

“But now I feel changed around   
And instead falling down   
I'm standing up the morning after   
Situations get fucked up   
And turned around sooner or later   
And I could be another fool   
Or an exception to the rule   
You tell me the morning after   
Crooked spin can't come to rest   
I'm damaged bad at best   
She'll decide what she wants   
I'll probably be the last to know   
No one says until it shows   
And you see how it is T  
hey want you or they don't   
Say yes…

I'm in love with the world   
Through the eyes of a girl   
Who's still around the morning after…”�

_\- “Say Yes”� — Elliot Smith_

.

Morning. She hates and she loves seeing it from this angle. Bony shoulder trapped between the sheet and his far more freckled one. Hair matted down to a once sticky neck; the beginning of her legs lost in the ending of his.

It’s wrong on so many levels. But even those lines are beginning to blur, in a bubbling, toxic mess. The very situation they’re in threatening to bring them down. And down and down and down. And down.

She rolls over. A lazy attempt to make the situation a bit clearer.

She remembers once loving mornings like this. The bleary eyes playing connect the dots with the then far more sparse freckles across his jaw-line. Clouded by darkness, a morning hidden by heavy tapestry, heavy eyelids. That sated feeling, one that inched its way along in her spine, in a gentle, unfolding arc.

The perfection of dawn. And she’s not even a morning person.

_“Charlie? Charlie? Hey…You awake?”� Finger pressed into his arm, her graceful approach at a wake-up call. “C’mon…talk to me.”� He had rolled, slightly, his chin nipping her forehead, grunting unintelligibly syllables._

_She had never understood the concept of silence._

_“Charlie…”� Her stage whisper, all the more deliberate, as she had shaken his shoulders. “I want to talk…Now…”�_

_His eyes had flickered, as though on command. “Bloody hell…it’s not even dawn yet, Dora…go back to sleep…”�_

_“I can’t…Charlie…I’m awake, and you…you’re being boring…”� She had shover him, and he had grunted, a lame attempt at a derisive laugh. “Entertain me…”� She knew how much he hated that whiny edge, the childlike pleas, but they amused her at the same time. “And, I mean, it’s not like there’s anyone else here to keep me occupied, or talk to, or tell them secrets. You want to hear my secrets, Charlie?”� She sounded like a ten-year old at a sleepover. And she knew it, and found it all the more humorous, as she playfully nudged his shoulder._

_He had grunted again._

_“Well, let’s see. First-year I had the biggest thing for Ralph Hendricks. And I just thought he was so cute, and well, Genevieve told him about it, and we kissed. It was my first kiss, my first real kiss. And he tasted kind of like slugs. Or, well, at least how I imagine slugs to taste. Really rather quite the disappointment. For me at least.”�_

_She got a lone chuckle out of this._

_“You were the first boy I ever had sex with. But you already knew that…”�_

_She had received a true laugh from that one. The quiet, rumbling kind. The kind she had liked to imagine was reserved only for her._

_“I once stole some money from my mum. Her purse had been on the counter, and I just got this…urge, and I just…reached in. And took her money.”�_

_“Dora, that’s not funny. That’s a felony.”�_

_Her fingers had skipped along his wrist bone, the hand lying gently and protectively along her hipbone._

_“Shh…I’m telling you stories here.”� She can’t see it, but she imagines that he’s rolling his eyes. In the typical fashion, dressing up his inability to understand her. The girl lying next to him._

_“Alright…”�_

_There was silence. A quiet moment where she had contemplated. Wondered if it was worth it to let the skeletons out or leave them imprisoned. For whatever reason, she felt emboldened and unlocked her secret closet door._

_“You remember that rumor about Susana Rockhart? The one about how she had shagged half the Slytherins?”� She could feel his head bobbing above hers. “Well…I started that. She called me a…Mudblood. And I was angry. So I told people she was a whore. And I never once felt bad about it. Even when she was crying in the middle of the Great Hall. I felt…nothing for her. But vindication."_

_She had paused. Awaiting judgement. None came._

_"I was heart-broken when I was sorted into Hufflepuff. My mother had been a Slytherin, my father a Gryffindor. And here I was, in the catch-all house, the one designed to hold the ones not smart enough to be Ravenclaws, not brave enough to be Gryffindors, not ambitious enough to be Slytherins. I had felt…ashamed for so long…and then guilty for the shame…and now…nothing really. To be quite honest, I think that hat just plain fucked up, but then, then I’m not really sure where I’m supposed to belong…”�_

_She had shifted her weight, felt his hand tighten on her waist._

_“I come from one of the worst wizarding families imaginable. But you know that.”� She had started whispering. “I’m half Black. They shunned my mother when she married my dad. We’re like…outcasts. My aunt killed people. The other one married a Malfoy. And they hate us all now. And sometimes…sometimes I’m scared. They’re in my blood, you know? They’re…family. And sometimes, sometimes I’m just afraid I’ll turn out like them.”�_

_She had taken a deep breath. Was proud of herself, and shameful all the same. He had seen her naked before, but never like this._

_“I’ve never thought of myself as…beautiful. It’s near impossible. Whatever I don’t like I can change. I can be a brunette, a blonde, a redhead, bald. I can have blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes, snake eyes. I can be thin, I can be fat. I can be pale, tan, white, black. But…but I can’t ever seem to be happy…with me._

_I don’t know who that is…It always seems to be…changing.”�_

_He had kissed her then, whispering sweet nothings and sweet everythings._

_She hadn’t shed a single tear._

She hates that lying there now she can’t understand half the memory, the names, the places. But she can remember the emotions, the feelings, the fear behind it all.

She can remember him comforting her, convincing her that she was worth something. Even if it was only to him.

Together now, seven years, over half a decade of hell later, she doubts there will ever be a repeat performance. By him. For her. He feels like stone to her now. Cold, distant. Beautiful and polished. Frozen in motion, empty eyes.

It angers her that time hasn’t brought him low. Time and trials and grief and work; nonehave stained his flawless exterior. The only reminder of pain are the scars that arc across his body, separating the freckles from one another. A sick part of her, the sadistic part, wants him to have hurt. Because of her.

She’s twenty-three with the mind of a child. The logic of a demon, a terror.

_Tit for tat. He should break too._

She hates that lying there, naked next to him, she can’t quite feel anything but anger and nostalgia. Here they are, bare, and barely touching. Skin grazing skin, no obstructions in their way.

They might as well be in different rooms.

She remembers the morning after. Asleep and waking against him. Head upon his chest, feeling the beat of a heart, both distant and in her own breast. She used to practice, try and get her own heart to beat in time with his. She never quite got it, getting bored with the game only seconds after it had begun. But there was something, something to be said of that closeness. The heat of a body that’s more than a body. The warmth of a soul that half belonged to her. When the morning came, she felt as if she owned him. Owned that satisfied half smile that graced sleeping lips, the disheveled red hair, the hands that held her in place. They were hers, and hers alone.

She always had a vicious possessive streak. She still wants tobrand him as hers, plant the flag and claim that land in her name.

In her eyes, it would only be fair.

After seven years of sleep and bad dreams, the awakening dawn is bitter, garishly bright, resounding with the reality that nothing, nothing will ever stay that same once time has set her stamp on it all.

He’s asleep, but she can’t feel him.

She’s forgotten what it means to be sixteen.

She sits up. Hugs her knees to her chest, and looks down at him. The way she always had; her vantage point high above.

She doesn’t know this man she went to bed with.

She doesn’t know the woman who joined him last night.

Silently, she stands. And looks at the scattered remnants of their wardrobe splayed across the floor.

She grabs a pair of knickers and pulls them on. Grabs a shirt of his, and barely manages to button the lone two buttons she even bothers with.

The morning is grey. And she finds that oddly appropriate.

She recognizes herself at times. She just seems to be stuck in black and white, the color palette dried and forgotten at the side of a crooked easel. She’s barely hanging on.

She used to love sunny mornings. She remembers it. As a child, racing through a backyard that was more forest than yard, playing the sports her father had taught her. She remembers how her mother hadn’t liked that. She remembers being at a school, and loving the mornings when the sun peeked through the window, beckoning her outdoors. And she would follow, ignoring homework in pursuit of play.

She hasn’t felt like that girl in a long time.

No. Now she’s the kind of girl that kills people with rubbish found in back alleys and then proceeds to fuck the former love of her life on a nightly basis, watching herself slip a little further into something she’s afraid to name.

_We bury our dead and leave them underground…we bury the dead but can’t hide the sound…we carry the dead…waiting to be found…_

She grabs the small grocery bag from last night and overturns it, dumping its contents out on the dresser. And there, among the sugar-carb hangover in the making, she finds what she’s looking for. The pack of cigarettes.

She’s not a smoker. She was introduced to the habit by a neighbor when she was fifteen. She thought it was cool then. The glamorous look of it, as though it belonged in one of those films that her father was always watching. She just needed the fedora, a dangerous husband and a dashing detective willing to help her out of a rough spot and shag her rotten simultaneously.

She feels, but she doesn’t. She’s…empty. Directionless. Lost, with no destination to call a home, no future to live vicariously though in dreams. She’s not…living for anything, merely breathing for the lone sake of survival.

She has no name. No name to place on her lack of thoughts, her empty head. She’s lost her rhythm, her music put on stop.

She’s lost her spark. And she wonders why she can’t glow.

She grabs a pack, flipping it gently in her hand over and over again, and a book of matches. Throws opens the window, wide. She sits on the windowsill, one knee up, the other down, toes brushing the carpet, prickling, but not enough to make her stop. She leans back, places the cigarette between her lips and lights it. A deep breath.

Light it up and put it out. Up and out, flame and fizzle. Inhale, exhale, cloudy lungs.

Her mother caught her once. In this very same position, sitting in her window, leg hanging out, a cigarette gracefully hanging between her fingers, nails polished black. Her mother had lectured her, using Tonks’s grandfather, on her father’s side, as an example. Used the dirty word: Cancer.

She remembers nights in London, underground clubs, deafening music and the intoxicating scent of nicotine branding her, infusing her clothing. The deep inhalation brings it back to her, and she almost expects to see the pleated skirt when she looks down at her lap. He doesn’t even know the half of it when it comes to her…

She remembers she had a different look for every night. Now, she can’t even imagine how she ever possessed the energy to keep the charade up.

And she knew at the time, and knows now. Cigarettes. She knows what they do. They’re supposed to kill, designed to destroy.

She silently chants _bring it on_.

.

He’s relieved that he wakes up to an empty bed, and feels almost odd for admitting it to himself.

A cold breeze washes over his bare chest. That’s what had awakened him in the first place. Cold. Air. Bed. Room. It was all like ice to him.

And there she is. Perched, as though about to take flight two floors down into pavement. He watches her toes skim the carpet, the gentle swing of her bare leg. And he’s not sure if he wants to push her or drag her down to him.

But even now, even now, with her body arched and almost still, he can feel the frenzy pulsing within her. Her dancing leg, tapping fingers. Cigarette that moves its way to and from her lips. Always in motion. Constantly on the move.

He’s not sure why this seems like something new. She’s always been this way. There’s just usually been a manic grin to accompany her inner madness, a giddy laugh racing in its aftermath.

He once found it endearing. Now, all he can think is Bellatrix Black, and even though he can’t quite pin the details, the accompanying fear, disgust and utter incredulity is enough to sum it up for him.

Bellatrix Black. The Mad Aunt.

He slightly remembers. She had killed people. Or tortured them. Something sadistic and inhumane. At this point, he’s not sure he wants the finer points filled in for him.

But she…his she, the she sitting mere feet away. She had killed too. He remembers that. A little too clearly. The blood. The easy way it snaked down her palms, onto her shirt. The way it spread across her, blood of the dead leaving its mark on her.

He’s killed too, though. A fact harder to forget than he’d care to admit.

Bellatrix Black.

He’s almost afraid to evaluate and psychoanalyze this thought process. The association between his ex-lover and current bedmate, pseudo-peacefully having a morning smoke and her criminally deranged aunt. The connect-the-dots could have a terrifying outcome.

But he knows. Knows as he sits there, watches her turn to him with unblinking empty eyes and offers him a smoke. Knows the answer as he lights up and watches the smoke lilt towards the ceiling and beyond.

_“There is no way in bloody hell the Chudley Cannons will take the cup, Charlie, and you damn well know it.”� She had thrown a chocolate frog wrapper into the dusk, watching it catch a ride on a breeze and float steadily down hill._

_He had glared at her; the features on her face melding into the setting sun. Her hair was black, with bright green stripes, cut to just below her chin. Her eyebrows were reaching for her hairline, waiting in triumphant expectation._

_“Two words, Charlie. That’s all I need to hear. ‘You’re right.’ Well, I suppose we could turn it into three words, make it sound a bit more eloquent. ‘You are right.’ Hell, let’s make it four and throw my name in for good measure. ‘Tonks, you are right.’ Hmm, or does ‘You are right, Tonks,’ sound better? I can’t decide. Why don’t you say both and then we’ll make a final decision.”�_

_He wasn’t sure at what point he had quit listening. He did know that he was a sixteen year old boy and her mouth was damn distracting and making him react to her chastising comments in what he could only call an inappropriate manner._

_He hoped it wasn’t incestuous to be attracted to a girl who felt like a sister. Something about it struck him as wrong. But at the same time...at the same time it was just...right_

_Yes, Tonks, you are right. The singular thought repeating through his mind. Not correct about her Quidditch prediction, but rather…she was right. Perfection in a misguided youth; precision in a trouble-making tomboy._

_She had looked pretty that evening. Or maybe it had just been the first time he had ever recognized her as such. But he believed it. Fell for the beauty that was a dimming sun glowing silently behind flushed cheeks. The stray strands of hair that had clung to her forward and dripped down into her eyes._

_She had turned a corner, flipped a switch. Introduced a new song and dance for him to sing along to. She was no longer Tonks. No. Tonks had been the little girl with scraped knees and big mouth and a permanent seat in detention._

_He had looked at her then, and he just couldn’t see it. Anymore._

_“You know, why do you make people call you ‘Tonks’?”� He had said it like a curse word, a foulness that shouldn’t be uttered in a lady’s presence. And over the course of a good two minutes, she had become that lady for him._

_“What do you mean? It’s my fucking name.”� She had been shredding grass, plucking the blades and ripping them straight down the middle._

_“No. Your fucking name is Nymphadora Tonks.”� He had ignored the scowl. “I mean, don’t you have any other nicknames?”�_

_She had laughed. “What? Tonks doesn’t suit your fancy, Mr. Weasley? You want to rename me? Make me your pet, call me your own?”� She had leaned in, dangerously close, noses nearly brushing. Her voice had gone from utter sarcasm to pure sex kitten. The mood gone from easy companionship to electric flirtation._

_“Something like that…”�_

_And he had kissed her. Their first kiss. Completely perfect, entirely picturesque. A portrait of young love, the beginning brushstrokes of a mural that wouldn’t be finished even seven years down the road. He didn’t know that then._

_“Dora…”� He had breathed the name, a hope-laced prayer. Dora._

_“Dora?”� Her nose had crinkled. “I sound like I’m either eight bleeding years old or fucking eighty.”�_

_He hadn’t laughed. He had just looked at her. Dora. “No. It’s…right.”�_

_And she had stared. Blatantly, eye to eye, not letting him go._

_“Alright then…”�_

He remembers what it felt like to love. And to be loved in return. Now it seems so far gone, merely a memory, a page out of a photo album.

Love. A distant reality a part of him wonders was ever true.

He sees her now. His Dora seven years later. She’s still the same mess she was when she was sixteen. Spontaneous. Flighty. Crass, crude, vulgar. Strong. Intelligent. Sarcastic, witty, bright. Scared. Lying.

It was all just a bit more acceptable back then.

But she’s missing. She hasn’t laughed in what seems like days. She’s lost her clumsy appeal, her penchant for destroying a room merely by looking at it. She’s lost…

The things that drew him to her in the first place.

The extrovert has become the introvert. The loud has become the quiet; the radical, the calm.

He’s watched her come apart, unravel, undo herself piece by tiny piece without quite realizing what it was she was doing to herself. And she’s come to this: a sad figure decorating a dirty windowsill, looking out on a morning that holds nothing but threats rather than promises.

And here he is. Strung out and strung along. In love with the idea of being in love. With her. And his bitter attempt at convincing himself that this is what it merely is all about.

But her…

He can see her rambling about Sunday cartoons and trips to the seashore and how some day she’ll take him there, and she’ll laugh because he’ll turn into a complete lobster, and her later vivid description of what exactly a lobster is and how if you fuck with it, it will rip your nose off and feel no remorse whatsoever. He can see her telling him her plans for the future, and how some mornings she wanted twelve kids, and others she’d declare herself a spinster in the making and her desire to only have cats as company.

He can see her, those morning afters. The crooked grin, the high blush staining her cheekbones. And her eyes. Bright with…everything.

He can see her now. And hates the pang of remorse that stabs right through him.

This isn’t the girl he fell in love with. This is the woman who will destroy him.

Watching her move, all legs and dark hair, moving, turning her head a fraction of an inch, eyes never reaching his, he knows that he’ll let her. Break him down to bits and kindling and light his world on fire.

“We’re going to London.”� Read like an obituary, a cue card, death ringing though the hollow tones.

“Alright then…”�

She stubs the cigarette out on the windowsill, chucking the remains out the open window. Stands. And moves away from him.

He knows. He’s already lost.

.


	11. Chapter Eleven: Bang Bang

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: Sue me not. For JK Rowling I will never be. And contrary to popular belief, I'm not Nancy Sinatra either, so unfortunately the song lyrics I did not write.

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

.

.

.

**Chapter Eleven: Bang, Bang**

“Seasons came and changed the time   
When I grew up, I called him mine   
He would always laugh and say   
Remember when we used to play   
Bang bang   
I shot you down, bang bang   
You hit the ground , bang bang   
That awful sound, bang bang   
I used to shoot you down”�

_\- “Bang Bang”� — Nancy Sinatra_

.

.

.

Turning around, shutting the door softly behind him, key digging into the palm of his hand, he thinks to himself. He hates change. He always has. There has never come a point in his life where he has met it head-on, with a grin and wide-open arms, screaming, come, come and turn my universe on its axis and watch me hang upside down. He knows he can't speak those words; he can't smile in the face and the glare of the unknown. Instead, he will brood and think of all the doom and gloom, the magic that might have transpired. The magic which shall never, ever, come, for the first time or again, wrapped in the same neat, messy, tangled package he might have unknowingly unwrapped.

He wonders when he became so poetic. He finds himself blaming her.

She has changed. And he hates it. So he will return the key to the pathetic excuse for a front desk, bid farewell to trysts in dirty, foreign hotel rooms and pray the emotions, the words, the actions of the past days will remain hidden behind the stained walls, never to rear their ugly heads again. At least not between the two of them.

He will pray he has left her behind, hidden in the closet or under the bed in one of those colorless rooms.

He knows a song. And its tune is disappointment. He knows a song, and he sings it loud. And he knows by now both you and her want nothing more than to cover your ears to drown him out. It's okay. He wasn't going to tell you anyway

She’s waiting for him outside. She’s waiting for London. And he finds that he is too.

.

It’s cold. Degrees have dropped and grey skies threaten to unleash their flurried fury. Barometers are falling.

She doesn’t have a coat. She had a cloak, now ripped to shreds and left behind in the first in their succession of hotel rooms. She didn’t fancy it much anyway. But now she wishes for just a hint of warmth.

The angst of the morning has seemed to have dissipated. The tone has changed, lightened, if possible, over the course of a shower and the exit of the building. She no longer feels the woman with intentions of plummets out of second story windows, the woman with visions of graveyards and silent death dancing through her head. It frightens her that she had come to that.

She knows it’s not behind her. Whatever this dark cloud is called which has chosen to plague her with emotions she’s too shocked and afraid to name.

She waits for him outside. Arms crossed, hugging her middle. Inhaling deeply, she looks to the ground, and there in the frost-bitten grass lies a bird. Cold and dead and freezing, wings which shall fly no more. She turns away, knowing a bad omen when she spots one.

“Hey.”� There he is, in all his morning, mourning glory. _This is not my Charlie._

“Let’s go.”�

She turns to walk, moving a few steps down the sidewalk, heading left, when she realizes. She has no idea where she is headed.

This is Bucharest. They are in Bucharest. And there should be a train station, a depot, somewhere hidden in this mess of a city. But here they are, in the outskirts, residing in flea-bag motels and living off of cheap liquor and individually packaged snacks.

She turns back around, and sees him standing there, leaning against the streetlight, map in hand. Red hair standing out against the grey of the city, like firelight.

She could almost worship at the altar of his practicality. But pride won’t let her kneel.

“Right. I haven’t a bloody clue as to where we’re going, do I?”� Her attempt at a light-hearted, congenial tone backfires,causing her tosound like a hysterical beauty pageant contestant instead.

“Yeah…”� He doesn’t lift his eyes. He chooses to follow the bisecting and the dissecting streets with names she can’t pronounce.

“If we take a right up until the corner and then hang a left, we should be able to catch a bus which’ll carry us to downtown Bucharest. There’s a train station there…”�

She wishes in vain she could pin the reason down, but the words he speaks sound foreign to his tongue. She can’t remember ever hearing Charlie Weasley speak of bus stops and the like. It’s not him. But she’s tired, tired of questioning him, questioning her, questioning him and her. The never-answered question and answer round is wearing thin on her.

“Right, so…shall we?”� She nods, and follows in step behind him.

_Why do we do this? Why do we bother?_

He’s beginning to slow, his pace faltering, and she soon finds him beside her, head turned, gazing curiously at her.

“Tonks…we need to talk.”�

She can recognize the kiss of death when she tastes it, when its tongue begs entrance to her mouth.

“Why don’t we just get to London first?”�

Fuck diplomacy.

.

She drops the coins down into the slot and hears them rattle down below.

She moves to the back of the bus, stepping over misplaced purses and obese extremities.

She sits by the window, folds her hands deep in her lap. He doesn’t sit beside her. He chooses the seat across, alone, the empty plastic cold and unforgiving. It all fits.

She rests her head against the window and blankly stares ahead, dimly processing the grimy buildings whipping by, painting their own disheartening landscape for her to enjoy.

The sky begins to fall. Dainty, pointed, white and wet, it falls from up above. She longs to be outside, out and walking, letting the cold air burn her lungs and the cold snow get lost in her hair.

Winter has always been her favorite season, mainly for theunconditional love affair she shares with the snow. She’s always loved it. She knows the entire world and everyone in it seemingly hates it, despises it, throwing curses at the weatherman and the bewildered traffic cop. But she loves it.

She watches it fall, watches it turn the entire world white instead of gray, covering everything which lingers dully beneath it. She watches it fall, light enough to quell the sting, hard enough to leave an imprint, a reminder that it was here.

She can see snowdrifts to come and soggy socks. She can see herself laying there, snow angels in her wake, the icy tickle as it serpentines down the open neck of her jacket, past the scarf and onto her skin. She can see the home fires burning and the hot chocolate bubbling.

She pulls away from the window a bit, and she finds that she can see herself. She can see her face amid the snowflakes, and for the first time in days, maybe even weeks, she can see a smile forming.

When it snows, everything goes away. Just for a few minutes. Those few minutes.

.

Descending the bus, she stares straight ahead, down into the intersections and into the faces and facades of buildings steadily increasing in age. The cars, the buses, the stamp of the times looks out of place next to the old stone and the towering architecture of old. She finds the paradox slightly amusing and simultaneously finds comfort in the fact she still can silently entertain herself.

She can feel him stand beside her. She doesn’t look. She’s tired of that as well.

Standing there, letting the snow collect and contrast with her dark hair, she understands. Understands that this, the frigid animosity between the two of them no longer has to do with the event seven years ago. It was the catalyst, she thinks. The match that ignited every foul thing the one felt for the other. And they’ve let it fester ever since.

She feels him there and she has to chant. _It’s all in the past, it’s all in the past._ It’s all in the past. The schooling, the love, the boy, the past handful of days. It’s all in the past.

She can feel herself approaching something grand, can almost see that door at the end of the hallway, the maze that is her mind.

“Shall we try to find the station?”�

She jerks her head towards him, offering a tight-lipped smile.

He’s shot her sanity to pieces. Once again.

.

They wander, for what seems like hours, days and weeks.

_He’s a man. They don’t ask for directions._ She hates that at times she thinks in clichés. Now being one of them.

“Charlie, we have hiked up and down this bloody avenue three times already. Thrice! Can’t we just…ask somebody?”�

He glares at her over his shoulder, increasing his pace, with her practically running in his wake. “You speak Romanian?”� he barks at her.

“I…I could try…”�

He laughs. And not all that kindly.

“Tonks, you can barely speak English. Tell me, how are you going to attempt to wing this?”�

“I speak English just fine, thank you.”� She hates that she’s giving in and beginning to act like him, the sarcasm and the cynicism conquering her system.

She doesn't think she likes it.

She quits talking, and merely tails him instead, silently.

Walking, she thinks, a constant inner monologue booming in her head.

_I haven't been happy in weeks._

Rightly so. She’s lost a mother, a cousin…herself.

She feels as though, no, sheknowsshe’s lost herself, an ever progressing process of renovation which has resulted in pure demolition as opposed to redecoration. She’s fallen through the cracks a bit, and the pace of her slipping has reached a hair-raising dive these past few days. She’s adopted a persona anything but her own. And she wonders if she can return, return to the days of bright pink hair and a pseudo-punk attitude. She wonders if she can wear her boots unlaced anymore or if that look simply won’t suit her.

But today, here, wandering the streets of a city she can’t understand, language and otherwise, she feels she might be able to. The pieces are shifting back into place, and she’s beginning to understand what she must do. What she must do in order to preserve herself.

.

Half an hour and a brief consultation involving two languages with a delicatessen owner later, the train station looms before them. The technology of it all surprises her. She wasn’t expecting the high-powered system that lies before her, the trains that look like rocket ships whipping past and into the future.

“Wow,”� she muses.

He holds the door open for her and she’s not sure what to say. Other than the obligatory mumbled ‘thank you.’

Standing in the open lobby she watches the grey shift in the glass ceiling. The snow has stuck to the outer reaches of the panes of glass.

She watches the people come and go in that brief second. Mothers dragging belligerent children by their shirt sleeves, threatening in their myriad languages everything from deprivation of sweets to actual physical abuse. Husbands meeting their wives, others meeting their lovers, their mistresses, their long-distance yet still burning flames time hasn’t managed to extinguish. Friend and foe, the arriving, the departing, all heaped under one tent, all lumped under one roof.

He grabs her by the elbow and pulls her off to the side.

“We don’t have nearly enough cash to pay for a couple of train tickets back home,”� he launches, sans any prelude or easy opener.

“I guess we’ll have to find one of those…machines. You, you, swipe the card and then type your number, and you get…money.”� She feels a fool for explaining. But why wouldn’t he know how to work an ATM?

“Right. Well, let’s find one then.”�

He’s cold to her now. Has been since this morning. It makes it all the easier.

She spots one across the way, next to the loo. She points, “I’ll just be a second.”� He nods, and she moves to the queue forming behind it. She stands there and watches the little girl exiting the bathroom. She couldn’t be more than eight. She walks past her, hair in messy pigtails, a bright orange polka-dotted t-shirt paired with striped green pants, a pink, fur-lined parka closing the ensemble out. She can’t help but think the two might just be kindred spirits. Rather, might have been.

She turns away. She has been so down and out, so dark as of late she knows she wouldn’t be able to recognize where the light would be, that is if she ever bothered to try and look for it. All she has felt has been grief and pain, inadequacies and failures, and the only things she has been able to find in the past months have been disappointments. She’s not happy. She knows this. It’s not that she’s forgotten, but rather, she’s been re-taught, taught the reality of life and all the cruel tricks it can play. And she’s been miserable. She has lost too much in too little time. And now, over a couple of days, it has taken its toll. And she knows why. She feels a joke, stupid and a fool. She thinks she’s up, when it all falls down and when she’s down she convinces herself she’s really up.

It’s him; it’s because of him.

She feels a tap on her shoulder, and turns around. A tiny old woman stands there and smiles, pointing at the machine. She realizes it’s her turn.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you.”� She knows the words have fallen on deaf ears, the language barrier working as soundly as ear plugs.

The woman smiles, pats Tonks’s arm and lets her move ahead.

_I’m going to be alright._

She walks back to Charlie, money stuffed in her back pocket.

“Let’s go home.”�

.

The ticket line is horrific. Chaos and claustrophobia all in one space. They stand, or attempt to, as the frenzied travelers move about them.

Finally, they make their way to the ticket booth, Charlie standing back, letting her do all the talking.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, sir?”� He is rummaging through papers, back turned to her. “Hey!”�

He turns, and she can’t pin why he seems so familiar. She has seen him somewhere. She’s just not sure where…

“Salutare, ce faci?”� Oh, fuck.

“Do you speak English? The English?”� She’s practically lying flat on the countertop, attempting communication with a Romanian, the din around them reaching a deafening roar.

She’s not sure why she became the negotiator, their cultural broker. Charlie lived in this bloody country for years at a time, while she was but a loyal denizen of England.

“The English? Yes, yes I do.”� It sounds like a foreign language all its own; words she knows lost in a heavy, stilting accent.

“Excellent, bloody brilliant. Okay…we, me and my friend here, we need tickets for a train that’ll take us to London, London, England. You understand?”� She realizes she’s yelling and speaking as though she’s attempting to contact the deaf and the dead. She can feel the flush rising in her cheeks.

“Yes,”� she can sense the irritation. “Yes, I understand. But, uh, there is no, uh, there is no train from here to there.”�

“From here to London?”�

“You speak correctly.”�

“Okay…then, is there…is there a connection?”�

“We have train that goes from here to Bulgaria, Bulgaria near Turk border, yes?”�

The geography lesson throws her for a loop. She’s not sure if he’s asking for her agreement or if this is a true scholastic inquiry on his part. “Yeah…”�

“Okay, then. You go to Bulgaria.”�

“And from Bulgaria…”�

He looks at her, condescension dripping off his nose. “London. You buy ticket there, and, London.”�

“Fine, fantastic. When’s the next departure?”�

“For Bulgaria?”�

She feels the urge to throttle him with his uniform sanctioned tie. “Yes.”� Gritted teeth work miracles.

“At the 2:15. In two hours time. You take?”�

“There’s not a sooner train?”�

“No. Booked full for the 12:30 and there are no others for today. Before. We have later if you wish.”�

“No, no. That’s fine…”� she peeks at his crooked nametag, “Dorin. That’ll be fine…”�

.

There they sit. Luggageless and alone on the wooden bench, the loudspeakers booming the incoming and the outcoming in Romanian, English, French, Russian and others she doesn’t have the patience to attempt to decipher.

Sitting there, she feels old.

In the past few hours, she has come to terms. With herself.

She has fallen apart. And the reason is sitting next to her.

Sitting there, she traces her name over and over again on the wood of the bench, scrawling an invisible Dora only she will ever know is there. She can feel him watching her. And then she feels his hand, closing over hers.

She wrenches hers away, shaking her head imperceptibly, placing it gingerly in her lap, not saying a word.

If she’s ever to live her life again, in peace,she will have to let him go.

.


	12. Chapter Twelve: Ignition

**Fear and Loathing in Romania**

Disclaimer: I swear on my favorite pair of pink sequin-y shoes I am not JK Rowling and that the Harry Potter empire does not belong to me. And on that same note, I swear on my magic green skirt from Anthropologie that I did not write the song lyrics listed below. They belong to Coldplay, and alas, Chris Martin belongs to Gwyneth Paltrow.

Rating: R (language, sex, violence)

Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.

Author's Note: Alright, here we are. Back where I left off, dare I say it, sometime last May. I am ashamed, I really am. My goal is to someday finish it. I have so much of this story mapped out. It just seems to be some oddly difficult task of bridging the gap from here to the future planned chapters. But I am trying. Anyway, this is the last chapter I have written up till now. I hope to put more up soon. 

.

.

.

**Chapter Twelve: Ignition**

“High up above or down below  
When you’re too in love to let it go   
If you never try you'll never know   
Just watch and learn 

Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones   
And I will try to fix you”�

_\- “Fix You”� — Coldplay_

.

.

.

Riding from Bucharest to Bulgaria was steady and silent, a deep and constant meditation she found she needed, not just desired.

She watched the Romanian city slip back into her past. She watched the boy across from her bleed into the hazy disappearing act, the gradual change of scenery. She watched a childhood flame blink into a stranger.

She found herself seated across from a man she did not know. And she had cherished the thrill that raced through her, the idea that this man, this idea, which for so long had consumed not just her mind, but spirit, heart, existence was now an unknown to her. Seven years of fading into the past as she continued into the present. She cataloged silently all which she no longer knew. His favorite color, favorite shirt. His bedtime, his tea time. His favorite book, his colloquialisms; the songs he would belt out in the shower, whether he slept in boxers, briefs or in the nude, his favorite sex positions. What languages he spoke, what hobbies he employed. How many lovers he had taken in the past year or seven; how many women he had loved on that timeline. She found sheno longerknew what made him happy anymore.

She had stared at the clean slate in front of her and relished in the idea of scribbling upon him. Once again.

And then it had hit. Like the weight of the very train they were riding upon, it struck her; struck her dumb and understanding.

The man, the man who had sat in front of her from curious city to another has one older brother with hair more extravagant than her own. He has a younger brother who mastered the concept of perfectionism, cleanliness and order seeing as the rest of the family was utterly inept in this domain. He has a younger set of twins, eternally youthful, pockets choked with contents willing to turn teeth black, skin orange and warp oneself into a walking practical joke. His youngest brother is a model of idealism with an awkward penchant for heroics while his baby sister is the sanity, the soft-spoken voice of reason. She knows he used to spend holidays with them all, but since reaching Romania had put his family on hold in the name of a career. She remembers the collection of freckles on his right shoulder can create a profile of a rabbit with pointy-ears, if looked at from the right angle and the correct muddiness of absinthe. She knows he runs his hand through his hair when frustrations have gotten the better of him or the nerves have morphed into butterflies and are now dancing deep within him. She knows he takes his liquor straight up and it was she who first introduced him to the smoky allure of cigarettes. She knows how his nose scrunches when he cries, his ears flame when embarrassed, his eyes squint while coming.

She had sat there, the entire soundless journey creating that mental list. All that she knew belonged to the mystery man placed on a pedestal before her. All that she knew and all that she questioned. She had charted the length of his nose and the space between his eyes. Measured the distance from shoulder to forearm and hips to ankles. She sized him up without staring him down.

She had found herself at eleven again, held in the charm of a certain redhead whose name was of her own invention. She was falling in and out of love, like the wayward crayon that can’t seem to manage to stay inside the lines.

She watched shadows dance across his face and wondered why she was letting him go.

She’s standing there now, before the train bound to hometown London. And there he is. Her Doubtful Date with Destiny, her Mysterious Messenger of the Past. There he is.

The passengers crowd in around her and she asks herself if the past can become the future. Or must it be buried with all the relics and the dead.

Hearing the train scream into the station, she knows what she remembers best about him. His anger, his temper. The way he can yell with that glint in his eyes, utter hate with a glimmer of grief and not a shade of compassion. She knows. The power to reduce her down to not only tears but broken pieces.

She remembers he can break her. She remembers he can hurt her. She remembers she can hate him.

She averts her eyes and sighs.

And the train screeches into place.

.

He’s not sure where the words are hiding between the two of them. They used to come so easily. But it seems the chasm has been opened even further, and somewhere at the base of that canyon are all the things he should have said days ago when meeting her for the first time.

It wasn’t a reunion. It was an introduction.

He had dozed the entire ride to Bulgaria. He knew he had been cold to her that entire morning and really couldn’t find the reason.

It’s a lie and he knows it.

Quietly, like the mutes they’ve been pretending to be since the mistake of grabbing her hand, they ascend the train, jump through the bureaucratic hoops showing off their tickets and lack of baggage needing to be claimed or the like and make their way to their seats.

She places herself across from him, slouching low in her seat, pulling fraying sleeves over small hands, nipping at the already chipped nail polish with dull teeth.

He can hear a voice over the loudspeaker some minutes later but lacks the energy to digest the words.

His mind’s on overload as is.

He has discovered over the course of twenty minutes that she, Tonks, Nymphadora, Dora, whatever her name is today, refuses to look at him. Not even the casual, semi-appraising glance in his general direction. He has blatantly watched her stare at the train parked on the tracks next to theirs, witnessed her battle with the loose threads hanging off the shirt he gave her. Saw her eyes glaze over, taking in nothing positioned in their car. Including him.

He finds it odd. Especially considering she couldn’t take her eyes off him a train ride ago

.

He has always hated the city.

Watching the scenery whip by, the trees, the dead trees, and the city itself growing tinier and dimmer in the background is what he needs, but is yet not enough to quell the disquieting feeling churning its way through him, fueled by the knowledge that they are off to an even larger metropolis.

He remembers how she used to tease him. Called him a “mountain man,”� a hermit. Told him he loved being among animals and their shit more than he did among humans. He would just laugh; there was no sense in arguing.

It was true. There was something appealing in the premise of unconditional love and respect and the guarantee they would never talk back. Bite, yes. Talk, no. And the sting of a nibble is far easier to subdue then the crushing pain of words. He knows this for a fact.

The irony of it all being that she was his greatest teacher.

Sometimes it's the lack of words which hurts the most.

He looks up from the wringing of his hands unto her turned head.

They have failed miserably. They had taken something pure and something right and through machinations all their own allowed it to twist and writhe into something neither will now mention.

He hated her once. He knows this and has a feeling she does as well. He hated her for hurting him, hated her for betraying him and their love he believed they had shared.

He had left after their apocalyptic romance. He had left Hogwarts, left England and gone to Romania, in theory for his job, in practice because of her.

Even today, he still finds it bitterly lame.

The sun is setting low. Another day wasted. The ticking of time not stilled throughout the waiting and delays of travel.

He wonders where they go from here. He knows the obvious answer: London. Merely their physical destination. The metaphysical is still up for grabs.

Will they forever hate each other? Or leave it at resentment, avoiding any possible random collision, he remaining in Romania until the day he or she dies while she claims England as her own? Will it rest in the realm of indifference, void of emotion and investment? For some reason, he fears this fate the most. The loss of any emotions between the two of them might be just too much for him to bear.

He watches her profile, tinged with an anger, a resignationthat never existed upon her face and he wants to erase it, eradicate it.

And he can hear it, drumming in his ears, in beat and in tandem with the clicking of the tracks and the whistling of the wind which rushes past. It doesn’t have to be this way. He can be he and she can be she and they can be something they never were but always knew they could be.

He remembers how it was. And now thinks of how he wishes it to be. Free of the ties that bind, anchoring them in a place all-consuming as opposed to consoling. They’ve become the haunted, allowing a past to dictate the future. And he’s tired of it. He’s better than this. They are better than this.

She used to be strong. He hates that she, now, slumped shoulders and ragged hair, appears to him as weak.

_I can change that._

He can hear that quiet voice in the back of his head. He can hear it, and knows the words it whispers but refuses to truly give in and acknowledge them.

He literally shakes his head to empty out the thoughts. Then instantly feels the urge to laugh, running a hand through his hair, reveling in the mess that is their lives.

This is Tonks. This is her now. And maybe, just maybe, they…

“I’m sorry.”� His voice sounds funny, off, the words caught in the hurried stream and rushing to form one lump of gibberish.

Her head snaps toward him. She blinks. He can’t stand that her face is expressionless. He remembers the days when her emotions seemed to just pour from every pore and one couldn’t help but get lost in the sea of it all.

“For what?”� Her voice soft. He thinks it deceivingly so. He knows the fury of the furnace behind the faÃ§ade.

“I’m sorry…for earlier. I was…I wasn’t really…being myself.”� He doesn’t know what it is he’s saying, or rather, attempting to say at this point.

“Earlier when?”� She’s not going to let him off easy. But then again, she never has. He always loved that about her. She never tolerated his shit. She threw it right back at him, served far more eloquently and coolly, sliding off of her.

“Just…earlier. I’m…sorry.”� And she’s staring again. Confusion written across tired eyes. She turns away from him again.

He takes a deep breath. Now or never. “Hey, um, we — uh, we never really got a chance, to, you know, catch up, or anything. Like that...”� Tongue-tied and swollen thoughts he can’t seem to get the words to flow.

“We talked in the car a bit.”� Cold, cold, cold. Too cold. And he thinks, here she is, freezing me out. And here I am with the lone match attempting to set the house on fire.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. We did.”�

Silence for minutes and miles. Dark descends and lights switch on. He fears the hollow circles beneath her eyes, quietly terrified of the resemblance she finally bears to her family name.

He watches her, she watching him, and he can feel it, seeping through him.

“You know…I — I’ve…I’ve really missed you.”�

She raises her head enough for him to see her eyes instead of the emptiness beneath them. “Charlie, please. Don’t do this.”�

“I’m sorry. I was just…being honest, I guess.”�

She sighs, loudly. “And stop bloody apologizing. It’s not you.”�

And he can feel the anger rising, coloring his face. “Yeah, well, the whole Narcissa Malfoy act isn’t really fitting on you either. I thought I’d role play right along with you.”�

“Fuck you.”� Almost like a prayer falling from her lips. Wrong in so many ways.

He looks away. And back again. “Forgive me, Tonks, or whoever the bloody hell you are these days. I was just trying…I was just. Fuck it, Tonks. How long are we going to do this? I am sorry, okay? I’m sorry for being an asshole earlier today. I’m sorry for fucking you three days straight and resurrecting apparently something neither of us seems to be able to handle. I’m sorry you came here. And…”� He hates that he feels so emotional. Hates that he could cry if he let himself right now. Sitting there in front of her. “I’m sorry I left. You." He swallows."And I’m sorry I hurt you.”�

He watches her close her eyes. And open them slowly. Taking him in, word for word and piece by piece.

“I just…well…”� he continues, “I figured after all these years of you apologizing to me, I…I still owed you something…too.”�

She doesn’t move.

“And, um, that’s fine…if it doesn’t make a difference. But it’s out there. And…it’s there.”�

He can hear the wheels turning beneath them.

“Alright…then.”�

Standing, he turns and walks to the other end of the car. He stops in front of a window and imagines he can still see the trees racing by.

.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. She knows this much is true.

He was supposed to be the utter bastard giving her reason upon reason to resent and hate and villainize. But instead…

It shouldn’t hurt her to think of what has just occurred. But it does. Anticlimactic in its own little way; what she had craved for the past seven years was just handed to her without prelude or dance.

And she had let it drop to the floor.

This is Charlie. Her surprising, unpredictable stranger.

She has never been good at guarding her emotions. She has been trying.

His voice broke her recently flimsy resolve.

She can see him by the window, his reflection bouncing back at him. He with his phantom self.

She stands, moving towards him, jelly legs and nervous, tingling fingers.

There they are. She stands there next to him, staring at themselves in the window. Gazing at the pair they make.

“We have made so many mistakes…”� He turns to her, speaking. “Haven’t we?”�

She can only nod.

She finds her voice. “I forgive you. If you can forgive me.”�

He chuckles softly. “Forgiven.”� He states it like a pardon, and the reverence he uses with the word almost makes her smile.

She turns back to the faces in the window. And he too does the same.

Three people watch the couple in the window, curious to their next move as the city lights grow steadily towards their train.

.


End file.
